


A Price That Must Be Paid In The End

by CelestialVoid



Series: Sailing On Dark Waters [3]
Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies), Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Werewolves, Alternate Universe - Pirate, Alternate Universe - Pirates of the Caribbean, Angst, Blood, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Body Horror, Canon Genders, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Derek Hale Has a Manbun, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pirate Chris, Pirate Derek, Pirate Isaac, Pirate Lydia, Pirate Peter, Pirate Scott, Pirates, Violence, Work In Progress, because I need it, pirate stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2020-09-25 03:09:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 19
Words: 33,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20369683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CelestialVoid/pseuds/CelestialVoid
Summary: There was a time when a man was free to change his fate, when a pirate was free to roam the seas—but the era of pirates is at an end and now, to save themselves, they must face the perils, the battles, and risk all that they fear to lose.





	1. I

The air was thick with mist. The sea-side town was silent. The rain from the night before gathered in puddles and streamed through the grooves in the cobblestone streets. There was an eerie whisper from the courtyard where the nooses hung above the gallows. The ropes swayed slightly in the breeze. Heavy iron chains rattled across the cobblestones as a stream of men, women and children—all shackled—marched to the gallows.

“In order to put an end to the ungodly conditions and to enact the common good, by the order of Lord Gerard Argent, duly appointed representative of his majesty, the King,” a man in a brightly coloured uniform read, holding the scroll of parchment before himself and trying not to look at the tear-stained faces that passed him on the way to the gallows. “By his creed, the following statues are temporarily suspended: the right to assembly, suspended.”

There was a loud _thunk_ as the trapdoors dropped and the nooses pulled taut.

“Right to legal counsel, suspended; right to verdict by a jury of peers, suspended. By decree, a person convicted of piracy, or aiding a person convicted of piracy, or associating with a person convicted of piracy, shall be sentence to hang by the neck until dead.”

The guardsmen in bright red uniforms unlocked the heavy shackles from the chain and escorted the next line of people up the stairs to the gallows. Among them was a child—no older than nine years old. His thin cotton shirt was torn and stained with mud and he clutched a battered coin in his hands.

He looked up at the noose that hung ominously above him.

He let out a shaky breath and looked down at the coin in his hands, running his thumb over the grooves of the design stamped into the smooth silver.

His voice was quiet, barely audible as he began to sing:

_The King and his men_  
stole the Queen from her bed  
and bound her in her bones  
the seas be ours and by the powers  
where we will we'll roam.

He flinched as the executioner set a barrel down in front of him. The man grabbed him and hoisted him onto the unsteady barrel, fastening the noose around the boy’s neck.

Beside the boy stood an old man, his dark skin wrinkled with age and his dark eyes void of emotion. He swallowed hard, the rope around his neck scratching at his throat. The words fell past his lips as a whisper,

_Yo ho, all hands  
Hoist the colours high._

One by one, the others on the gallows joined in, their voices carrying through the courtyard with an eerie echo, matched by to those who were shackled and awaiting execution.

__  
Heave ho, thieves and beggars,  
Never shall we die.

They stomped their feet against the pavement, the boots pounding the earth with at steady beat. They shook their chains, the iron crashing against the cobblestones.

_Yo ho, haul together_  
Hoist the colours high  
Heave ho, thieves and beggars  
Never shall we die.

_Yo ho, haul together,_  
Hoist the colours high.  
  


One of the guards ran into the barracks, sprinting down the hallway and into office that overlooked the courtyard.

“Lord Argent,” he said with a polite nod, trying to catch his breath. “They’ve… begun to sing.”

Gerard sat at his desk. His face was creased and worn, his dark eyes staring into the distance. A wicked smirk lifted the corner of his lips as he said, “Finally.”

From the courtyard, the voices of the prisoners carried through the air.

_Heave ho, thieves and beggars…_

The boy on the gallows turned his eyes to the dreary grey sky.

_  
Never shall we die._

The was a loud thud as the executioner pulled the lever and the floor drops beneath them. The crack of the rope rang out.

Time seemed to slow, sound amplified as the battered silver coin fell from the boy’s hand, striking the ground with a bang.

The water parted around the hull of the dingy, the water pooling around him like ink—lit only by the dull glow of the lanterns that hung from the piers and storefronts of the city that sat on the water. His oar cut through the still water, sending ripples across the dark water.

The young man was dressed in heavy blue robes, a fine pattern woven into the thick silk. A straw hat sat atop his head, casting shadows across his face and obscuring his face from the soldiers that marched across the wooden walkways—heavy booths thundering across the withered planks.

He rowed through the water below the pylons that held up the shoreline city of Japan.

His voice was quiet as he sang, his words carried into the darkness,

_The bell has been raised_  
from its water grave,  
Hear its sepulchral tone.  
A call to all  
pay heed the squall  
and turn yourself toward home.

He paused for a moment as the soldiers marched across the bridge above him. He glanced up, careful not to reveal his face.

He heard the faint trail of music as an organ grinder dressed in layers of ragged clothes wheeled their cart along the walkways, setting it down on by the bridge.

_Yo ho, haul together.  
Hoist the colours high._

He pulled the boat up alongside a flight of stone stairs, tying it off to a cleat on the edge of the stone wall. He climbed out of the small boat, glancing around as he stepped towards the stairs, following the lantern light.

_Heave ho—_

“Thieves and beggars,” a man interrupted, his voice sharp as he enunciated each word—almost mockingly. “Never shall we die.”

The man was dressed in dark clothes, blending into the shadows of the night. A sword was strapped to his side, a gun holstered on the other, and a lantern in his hand. Four others—dressed the same as him—stood behind the man.

He lifted the lantern, shining it in the boy’s face. The glow lit his features: his pale skin covered with moles that charted constellations, his dark-brown eyes that turned to gold as they caught the light, and his unwavering composure as he lifted his chin defiantly.

“That’s a dangerous song to be singing,” the man lectured him. “Especially for a boy.” He paused for a second before adding, “Especially for a boy who’s alone.”

“What makes you think he’s alone?” a deep, gravelly voice asked from behind them.

The guards spun around, looking at the man who stood on the stone stairs. Chris sauntered down the cobblestone steps, unphased by the men who drew guns on him.

“You here to protect him?” the guard asked.

Stiles moved too quick for anyone to catch him. He drew a knife from under his robe and held it to the man’s throat, the blade digging into his skin. “What makes you think I need protecting?”

The other guards turned their pistols on Stiles.

“Your master is expecting us,” Chris said, keeping his voice level and calm. He glanced from the guards to Stiles. “And an unexpected death could cast a poor light on our meeting.”

Stiles got the message. He let out a measured breath and released the man, but he didn’t sheath his dagger.

The heavy thumping of soldiers marching across the wooden walkways caught their attention. They all backed up against the brick walls, pressing their backs to the uneven stones and sinking into the shadows.

“Follow us,” one of the guards said, melding into the shadows as they turned and walked along the narrow ledge, leading them away from the pier and under the bridges that held the city above the murky water.

“Have you heard anything from Derek?” Stiles asked Chris when they were far enough away from the soldiers not to be heard.

“Only that he’s on his way to acquire the charts and that you need to remember your place in the presence of Yukimura,” Chris replied, keeping his voice low.

Stiles rolled his eyes.

_That’s a no then_, he thought.

“Is she really that terrifying?” Stiles whispered, pretending to pay attention.

“Much like myself.”

Stiles glanced at him out the corner of his eye, levelling him with a look but he bit back his comment.

They made their way through the dimly-lit streets until they reached a large building. Wisps of steam rose from the gaps int eh door, the smell of moisture and bath salts drifting into the tepid air outside.

One of the guards knocked on the door.

A small window opened, a pair of dark eyes looking out at them.

The guard said something quietly and the window shut again. A second later, a series of clicks sound out as the locks were drawn back and the heavy wooden doors opened.

They stepped into the room, feeling the heat and humidity seep into their skin.

“Weapons, please,” a man beside the door said.

Chris took the lead, shrugging off his heavy coat and hat. He drew his pistols from the waistline of his pants and unbuckled the belt that held his sheathed sword.

Stile reluctantly followed his lead. He untied the straw hat that hung around his neck and set it down on the table. He unfastened the heavy blue coat he wore and shrugged it off, exposing the belts that were strapped around his waist and across his shoulders. The guards watched him with wide eyes as he set the coat down on the table nearby and began to unfasten the belts that held daggers, swords, pistols and ammunition. They fell to the table with a heavy _klunk_ as he turned back to the guards.

A thought struck him. He held up his hand before reaching down and pulling out the knifes that were concealed in his boots.

Finally finished, Stiles turned back to them, flashing an innocent smile.

Chris took a step forward, but the guard who stood before the doors to the bathhouse held up his hand, stopping him. He nodded towards Stiles. “You think he is a boy that we do not suspect him of treachery?”

Stiles looked down at himself. He was still wearing a shirt, pants, and a thick black coat. He let out a sigh as he unbuttoned his coat and shrugged it off his shoulders, revealing another belt that was strapped to his waist, lined with grenades. He unbuckled the belt and set it aside. He reached into the back of his shirt, pulling the cotton up and drawing his pistol from the small of his back.

The eyes of those watching on grew wider the more weapons Stiles uncovered.

Just to make sure, he pulled his off his worn leather boots, setting them aside on the table.

The guard looked him up and down, still not satisfied.

Stiles looked down at himself again, now only dressed in a shirt and pants.

“Oh, come on,” Stiles scoffed.

The guard’s gaze didn’t wave.

“At least let me keep some decency,” the boy pleaded.

The guard looked from Stiles to the pile of weapons that laid on the table.

Stiles followed his gaze. He let out a heavy sigh, levelling the guard with a livid glare as he reluctantly pulled his trousers off, letting the baggy fabric of his shirt hang down to his thighs. The thin fabric of the faded shirt clung to his lean form, leaving nothing to the imagination and making it clear he was concealing no more weapons.

He tossed his pants onto the pile, glaring at the guard.

The man gave him another once over before stepping aside and pulling back the curtain.

Chris lead the way into the bathhouse. Plumes of steam rose around them, the smell of jasmine hanging in the air. They walked past soaking tubs full of water and soaking bodies.

Stiles shifted from foot to foot, self-consciously tugging at the hem of his shirt.

One man met his gaze. His skin was stretched tight across his body, rippled and scarred as if it were bandages or sun-bleached seaweed. The side of his face was covered in pippies, their hard shells embedded in his ghostly-pale flesh.

Stiles felt his stomach twist. He swallowed hard against the growing lump in his throat as he forced himself to look away, following Chris’ heavy footsteps as they made their way to the far end of the bathhouse.

Stiles glanced up at the small alcove at the far end of the room. A woman sat on a large chair, her long dark hair sitting around her face. Her face was worn with age, but her dark eyes held strength and wisdom. She wore a black omi, the dark fabric embroidered with red, silver and gold thread that traced elegant patterns across the glossy silk.

Noshiko Yukimura.

Chris took another step forward, dipping into a low bow. He slapped Stiles’ side, prompting him to do the same.

“Captain Argent,” Noshiko greeted, her voice calm and level. “Welcome to Japan. I understand you have a request to make of me.”

“More of a proposal,” Chris said, straightening his back to look at her. “I have an adventure underway and I am in need of a ship and a crew.”

Noshiko looked pensive. “That is quite a coincidence.”

“Because you happen to have a ship and a crew you don’t need?” Stiles asked.

“No, because earlier today, a thief broke into my dear mother’s temple and tried to make off with these—“ She held out her hand, waiting for the young woman standing behind her to hand over the bundle of rolled, painted bamboo. “The Navigational Charts. The route to the farthest gate.” She tossed them into the arms of one of the nearby guards. “Wouldn't it be amazing if this venture of yours took you to the world beyond this one?”

“It would strain credulity at that.”

Yukimura turned her gaze to two men who stood by a small pool. She gave them a sharp nod.

Stiles turned to see them haul a man out of a bathtub of water.

He wore an old grey shirt, the fabric darkened by the water soaked through the fabric. His clothes clung to his broad shoulders and sculpted abs. His arms were bound to a long bamboo pole, the coarse rope leaving angry red welts against his wet skin.

The man had a square jaw that was darkened by stubble. His thick, dark hair had fallen out of its tie and fallen around his face. The wet strands parted as the man heaved in broken breaths. He blinked the water out of his eyes, looking up at them with pale green eyes.

Derek.

“This is the thief,” Noshiko said. “Is his face familiar to you?”

They shook their heads.

“Very well,” she said, pulling a wooden spike from under her robe. She took a step closer, grabbing a fistful of Derek’s hair and jerking his head back. “Then I guess he has no further need for it.”

She pressed the pike to Derek’s chin.

“No!” Stiles yelped.

Chris threw out his arm, catching the boy before he could take another step forward.

Noshiko took a step back, a dark rage settling on her face. “You come into my city and you betray my hospitality.”

“Noshiko, I assure you, I had no idea—”

“That he would get caught!” she shouted.

The bathhouse fell silent, all eyes turning to them as a few of the guards readied their hands on their weapons.

Noshiko let out a steady breath, lowering her voice as she continued, “You intend to attempt the voyage to Davy Jones' Locker. But I cannot help but wonder why?”

In a flash of movement, Chris tossed her a silver coin.

She caught it and held it up to her ear, listening to the eerie echo of its ringing.

“The song has been sung,” Chris said calmly. “The time is upon us. We must convene the Brethren Court. As one of the nine pirate lords, you must honour the call.”

“There is a price on all our heads,” Yukimura reminded him. “And it seems the only way a pirate can turn a profit anymore—" She turned to look at Derek. “—is by betraying other pirates.”

“We must put our differences aside. The First Brethren Court gave us rule of the seas. But now that rule is being challenged by Lord Gerard Argent.”

“Your father,” she reminded him, levelling her gaze on Chris.

“Perhaps, but I have no loyalty to him.”

“Against East India Trading Company, what value is the Brethren Court? What can any of us do?” Noshiko asked.

“You can fight,” Stiles argued, taking a step forward. One of the guards grabbed his arm but Stiles wretched it free, throwing manners to the wind as he took another step forward. “You are Noshiko Yukimura, the pirate lord of Japan. You command in an age of piracy where bold captains sail free waters, where waves aren't measured in feet, but as increments of fear, and those who pass the test become legends. Would you have that era come to an end on your watch? The most notorious pirates from around the world are uniting against our enemy, and yet you sit here cowering in your bathwater!”

A look of surprise and amazement passed over Noshiko’s face as she looked down at the brazen you man. A small smile turned up the corners of her lips.

“Stiles Stilinski,” she started slowly. “There is more to you than meets the eye, isn't there?” She took a step forward, sliding a finger beneath the young man’s chin. “And the eye does not go wanting.”

Derek flinched, straining against the pole he’s bound too.

“But I cannot help but notice you have failed to answer my question,” Yukimura said, turning back to Chris. “What is it that you seek in Davy Jones' Locker?”

“Peter Hale,” Derek answered.

The smile fell from Noshiko’s face.

“He's one of the pirate lords,” Derek added.

Chris stepped forward. “Peter Hale holds one of the nine pieces of eight. He failed to pass it along to a successor before he died. We must go and get him back.”

Noshiko turned away from them, her eyes falling on the young man who stood by a nearby bathtub, his back to them. She watched as the steam rose around his body, droplets of water and sweat turning black as the tattoo on his shoulder bled ink.

She let out a measured breath, feeling the rage rise from within her. “So, you admit you have deceived me.”

Chris’ brow furrowed.

Noshiko turned sharply. “Weapons!”

The guards drew their swords, men standing up from the steaming bathwater and unsheathing blades that had been concealed beneath the water.

“Yukimura,” Chris says calmly. “I assure you, our intentions are strictly honourable.”

There was a rush of air as their swords flew up through the gaps in the floorboard. Stiles and Chris caught them.

Stiles let out an exasperated sigh, looking heavenwards as Chris flashed a charming smile.

Noshiko grabbed the man, pressing the end of the spike to his throat. “Drop your weapons or I kill the man.”

Chris glanced between Stiles and Noshiko. “Kill him; he's not our man.”

Derek’s eyes widened. “If he's not with you, and he's not with us... who's he with?”

There was a thundering boom as the doors to the bathhouse were blown open. Splintered wood rained down around them, knocking Stiles to the ground.

He pushed himself onto his hands and knees, turning in time to see the soldiers in the brightly coloured uniforms march into the building.

“Damn,” he uttered under his breath. He grabbed his sword, leaping to his feet as the solders charged towards them.

Metal crashed against metal as the guards fought off the soldiers.

A soldier drew his sword, crying out as he charged at Derek. Derek jerked his body to the side, dodging the blade as he slammed the bamboo pole he was bound to into the man’s wrist. The soldier cried out in pain, dropping his sword and clutching his hand. He turned to look back at Derek, but not in time; Derek swung the pole into the man’s face and knocking him aside.

Stiles ducked to the side as a soldier fired a rifle at him, narrowly missing the bullet. He swung his blade, slicing through a soldier’s gut before sprinting across the room to Derek’s side.

“Derek,” he called out.

The man turned towards him.

Stiles sliced the ropes, freeing Derek’s arms, and tossed him one of his swords.

A soldier lifted their gun, aiming at Stiles. Stiles pushed the barrel aside, pulling the gun free of the man’s hold before running him through with his blade. He turned the gun around, aiming at a soldier that charged at Chris, and fired.

The soldier’s body jerked before collapsing at Chris’ feet.

Chris turned, looking back at Stiles in shock.

Stiles tossed the rifle aside, his attention drawn to the man in the black uniform. He felt his blood turn to ice in his veins, freezing as he looked at the man’s familiar face.

General Alexander Argent.

Alexander drew a pistol from his belt, levelling his aim on Stiles.

Derek sprinted across the room, tackling Stiles out of the way as the man fired.

“Are you okay?” Derek shouted over the screams, gunfire and crashing metal. He pushed his long hair back out of his face, his pale aventurine eyes looking down at Stiles with worry.

Stiles nodded, his words escaping him.

Derek leapt to his feet, pulling Stiles up with him.

The guards lined up across the exit, blocking their way out. They knelt in ranks and raised their rifles.

“Ready!” General Argent shouted.

Stiles felt his heart stop.

“Fire!”

There was a thundering boom as the floor gave way beneath them, the guards falling into the tunnels below.

“Let’s go,” Derek shouted, grabbing Stiles’ arm and running towards the door.

They leapt across the broken flooring and ran into the streets. The city was in chaos, the night air filled with screams and gunfire.

Stiles’ feet pedalled beneath him as he ran. His bare feet struck the wooden boards of the walkways as he sprinted towards the docks, fighting off soldiers as he ran.

Derek let go of Stiles’ arm, turning to fight off a soldier that charged at them. He blocked the man’s sword, parrying before swinging his arm up and slicing through the man’s chest.

He felt someone pull him back into the shadows. He spun around, holding up his sword.

Noshiko blocked it, her voice quiet as she spoke, “It's an odd coincidence, isn't it? The East India Trading Company finds me the day you show up in Japan.”

“It is coincidence only,” Derek assured her. “If you want to make a deal with Lord Argent, you need what I offer.”

“You would cross Christopher Argent, you are willing to cross Peter Hale,” Yukimura said, hesitant. “Why should I expect any better? How can I assure you will not cross me?”

“I need the _Lunar Eclipse _to free my sister.” Derek reached for his hip with his free hand, unsheathing a small knife—the one Cora had given him. He held it up to show her. “You're helping me to get it.”

Stiles ran past the organ grinder’s music box, vaulting over a nearby merchant stand and dropping behind it. He heard the thundering footsteps of the soldiers that ran after him.

The music began to slow, the drum rolling to a halt as the melody died out.

An explosion tore through the air, the raging fire lighting the night sky with a bright orange glow.

Stiles let a breath fall from his lips, turning to face the woman who sat beside him, dressed in rags of what used to be an expensive dress. The once-white fabric had been tainted and muddied, stained brown but still showing patches of the original colour: shades of blue and white. The layers of fabric made it look like the crashing waves and white caps of the ocean. The dress had been patched up with strips of fabric and decorated by scarves and jewels, making the frail lace of her corset and the billowing skirt stand out against her dark skin.

Braeden smiled at him.

Stiles offered her his hand, helping her to her feet before leading the way across the walkways, towards the docks.

One by one, the crew began to gather.

Lydia and Allison appeared, covered in blood and soot.

“Not a word,” Stiles said warningly as Lydia passed Stiles his pants and coat, struggling to hide her smirk.

Stiles dressed himself, pulling on his pants and tucking the shirt into the waistline before shrugging on his coat.

Scott and Isaac appeared, carrying the cache of weapons Stiles and Chris had been forced to abandon at the door.

Stiles took back his weapons, strapping the belts around his waist and across his chest.

Next was Chris, a gun in one hand and a sword in the other. Derek appeared behind him, trailed by the young girl Stiles had seen in the bathhouse.

“Do you have the charts?” Chris asked as Derek caught up with them.

Derek held up the roll of painted bamboo. “Better yet: a ship and a crew.”

“Where's Yukimura?” Stiles asked.

“She'll cover our escape and meet us at Shipwreck Cove,” Derek explained.

“This way,” the young girl with long dark hair directed. “Quickly.”

Derek took Stiles’ hand, following the girl towards the ship.

The crew quickly set to work, casting off and sailing away.

Stiles stood on the bow of the ship, watching as the dancing orange flames consumed the city, the darkness of the night filled with the blood-curdling screams of men and women as they fought.

He heard footsteps across the wooden deck as Braeden stepped up his side, her eyes focused on the rippling sheet of dark water.

“Do you think Yukimura will honour the call?” Stiles asked.

“I do not know,” she replied. “There is an evil on these seas that even the most staunch and bloodthirsty pirates have come to fear.”


	2. II

The nightmarish ship tore through the waves, spraying water across the merchant ship as it breached from the depths. Cries of panic and agony rang out across the open water, drowned out by the raining cannon fire as the cannon balls tore through the ship.

The crack of splintering wood was the last thing to be heard as the ship was torn apart and pulled beneath the tide.

A wicked smile lifted the corners of Lord Argent’s mouth as he listened to the sounds fade. He leant back in the seat behind his desk, rows of carved wooden figurines—soldiers—lined up in front of him, a heavy, black iron chest sitting beside him with the beating heart of Deucalion still inside of it, and a row of eight battered silver coins lined up in front of him. He picked up one of them, spinning it on the flattened edge and listening to the metal hum.

“A piece of eight,” Gerard mused. He glanced up at Alexander. “Nine of them, you say?”

“Our new friend in Japan was very specific, sir,” General Argent replied.

Gerard nodded, watching as the coin fell flat on the desk, wavering slightly before the low hum died and the coin fell still. “Nine pieces of eight… What’s the significance of that? It doesn’t matter; nothing can hold against the armada, not with the _Alpha_ at the lead.

“Nothing we know of,” Alexander corrected.

“Did your friend mention where the Brethren Court are meeting?” Gerard asked.

“No,” his brother replied.

Gerard let out a heavy sigh, his eyes darkening in thought. “Then they know the value of information.”

He turned, glancing across the cabin to where Governor Stilinski sat behind a heavy mahogany desk, piles of papers stacked up in front of him as he signed whatever was passed to him.

“It would be best to keep this between ourselves. We don’t want anyone running off to Japan, do we?”

The doors to the office opened as a man stepped into the room, staying by the doorway and staring dead ahead.

“Ah, Admiral,” Argent greets, turning to face the man.

“You summoned me, Lord Argent,” Tate says, his voice dry.

“Yes. There’s something for you there.” He nodded to a nearby table. “Your new station deserves an old friend.”

A black leather case sat of the table top. Tate paused for a moment, recognising it instantly. He reached for the brass locks and flicked them open. Inside, sitting on the bright red velvet lining, was an elegant dress sword and a scabbard, both beautifully designed with careful attention to detail. The folded steel sword with a seam of gold down the engraved groove of the blade. The carved oak hilt with its gold filigree laid into it and leather strapping for grip.

It was the sword Derek made him for his promotion to commodore.

“Not more requisition orders,” he heard John say, his voice tired and edged with irritation.

“No, sir,” the guard handing him the papers replied. “Execution.”

Tate drew the sword from sheath, staring at the blade. His eyes turn to Governor Stilinski, finding the man staring back at him with weary, fearful eyes.

“The Brethren know they face extinction,” Gerard said, turning away from Tate and from his brother and looking out across the rippling waters. “All that remains is for them to decide where they make their final stand.”

He stepped out of his office and onto the deck, his eyes focused on the carnage and flotsam left in the wake of Deucalion’s latest victims.

“Bloody hell,” he cursed, amazed. “There's nothing left.”

“Deucalion is a loose cannon,” his brother said, stepping up to Gerard’s side.

“Fetch the chest,” Argent ordered.

“And the Governor?” Alexander replied. “He's been asking questions about the heart.”

“Does he know?” Gerard asked. Alexander didn’t reply. Gerard nodded. “Then perhaps his usefulness has run its course.”

His hands shook as his fingers danced across the organ keys, the sound resonating through the pipes and ringing in his hollow chest.

His fingers stilled, the sound drifting away as the sweet melody played from the music turner inside the locket that sat beside him. He watched the metal drum turn, the familiar tune playing as memories began to drift into his mind.

He remembered the smell of the sea the morning he found her unconscious on the shore, the bubbling seafoam clinging to her skin as the waves lapped at her still body. Her clothes were soaked through, clinging to her slender form. He remembered how light she was as he lifted her up off the sand and carried her to his house, lying her down on the small cot as he lit the fire and waited beside her until she woke.

He remembered her soft voice as she confessed her secrets, expecting him to flinch away and call her a monster, but he never did. He only loved her more.

He remembered the day that changed everything, when the storm hit the town and the boy was swept out to sea. He was helping the fishermen tie down their ships when he heard the boy’s sister screaming for him, her voice still ringing in his ears as she cried out Peter’s name.

He didn’t think twice—he dove off the pier and swam to the boy. He hauled him back to the pier where the fishermen lifted the boy onto the dock, but the wave hit. Deucalion lost his grip. He was pulled under the tow, his lungs burning for air as he was knocked about, spiralling until he couldn’t tell which way was up. His breath fell past his lungs, his body weakening as he gave up the fight.

He struck the deal; ferry the souls of those who die at sea, and in return step ashore every ten years. But when he returned ten years later, she was gone, leaving behind the lace wedding veil that was intertwined with a circlet made of woven strands of flowers: lily of the valley, snowdrops and sweat pea, a small silver pendant in the shape of a crab with a pearl in the centre of it—the one he had given her—and a letter.

Deucalion felt his heart ache. He reached for his chest, his fingers feeling the smooth ridge of his faded scar.

He felt a warm tear trail down his cheek. He wiped it away, feeling rage boil within him as his emotions clouded his mind.

He threw back his seat and stormed out onto the deck as the East India Trading Company’s soldiers formed ranks, their rifles in their hands.

“Go,” he howled. “All of you!” His eyes fell on the black iron chest, knowing what it held. “And take that infernal thing with you. I will not have it on my ship!”

“I'm sorry to hear that,” Gerard said, stepping forward from the shadows. “Because I will. It seems to be the only way to ensure that this ship do as directed by the company. We need prisoners to interrogate, which tends to work best when they're alive.”

“The _Alpha_ sails as its captain commands,” Deucalion growled.

“And its captain is to sail it as commanded,” Argent said with finality.

He took a step forward, levelling his eyes on the ship’s captain.

“I would have thought you'd learned that when I ordered you to kill your _pet_,” Argent adds with distain. “This is no longer your world, Deucalion. The immaterial has become... immaterial.”

He waved forward two guards that carried the chest, ushering them into the captain’s quarters. They slid the key into the lock, the moulded metal shaped like a crab embedded into the ornate engravings of the chest shifting as they turned the key. The legs twitched as the gears moved and the lock unlatched.

They pulled back the lid, revealing the still-beating heart. The soldiers stepped aside as others joined them, raising their rifles and taking aim.

The gunshots rang out across the sea.

The hull of the ship creaked and groaned as it glided through the icy waters. Icebergs drifted past them, chunks of ice crackling and falling from cliff-like icy shelves and the banging against the side of the ship—making them jump.

The pulled their jackets and blankets around themselves, shivering as they fought off the cold.

Flurries of snow drifted around them, the delicate snowflakes clinging to their hair and skin.

Braeden’s voice drifted through the air like a ghostly whisper as she sang,

_You-hu-hu_  
they are coming for you.  
I can see three pirates on the ocean.

__  
You-hu-hu  
they are coming for you.  
I can see three pirates on the ocean.

_  
The first one lost his eye,_

Stiles watched as she turned her eyes out to the sea, her eyes full of longing and thought. He realised who she was singing about.

Deucalion.

_The second lost his sense._

She looked down at the battered, old leather hat in her hands – Peter’s.

She lifted her gaze again, levelling her dark eyes with Stiles.

_The third one will show no emotion._

Stiles felt a shiver run up his spin, guilt twisting his gut. He turned away from her, pulling his jacket tight around himself as he watched the ice gather across the still water and his breath swirl in clouds before his face.

“Why doesn’t the obeah woman bring Peter back the same way she brought back Chris?” Isaac asked, trying to keep his voice low.

“Because Chris was only dead,” Braeden answered. “Peter Hale is taken, body and soul, to a place not of death, but of punishment—the worst fate a person can bring upon himself, stretching on forever. That's what awaits us in Davy Jones' Locker.”

Derek stood up on the higher deck, leaning forward over the charts. His long hair was pulled back from his face and tied in a bun, a few stray strands escaping the thin cord he used to tie his hair back. His brow furrowed in thought as he tried to make sense of it all. His icy hands shake as he spins the circles, trying to line up land masses and markings.

“Nothing here is set,” he said through chattering teeth. “These can't be as accurate as modern charts.”

“No,” Kira replied. “But it leads to more places.”

Derek turned the outer ring until the black letters along the edge of the circles lined up.

"‘Over the edge. Over again’," he read. He turned it more, lining up the letters on the bottom of the ring. "‘Sunrise sets. Flash of green’."

Derek looked over his shoulder at Chris.

“Do you care to interpret?” he asked.

Chris’ expression didn’t waver. His voice rang out through the still, cold air as he called out, “Ever gazed upon the green flash, Master McCall?”

“I reckon I seen my fair share,” Scott answered from down below, standing beside Isaac. “It happens on rare occasions; the last glimpse of sunset, a green flash lights up the sky. Some go their whole lives without ever seeing it; some claim to have seen it who haven’t. Some say it signals when a soul comes back to this world from the dead.”

“Trust me, young Master Hale,” Chris said, his pale eyes set on the horizon as he turned the wheel and steered them through the icy passage. “It's not getting to the land of the dead that's the problem… It's getting back.”

Derek swallowed hard, his eyes drifting from the maps to Stiles’ small body at the bow of the ship. He stepped away from the charts, making his way down the ladder and onto the main deck. He stepped over to Stiles’ side, his pale aventurine eyes looking him over.

“How long do we continue not talking?” he asked.

“Once we rescue Peter, everything'll be fine,” Stiles said quietly.

“Once we rescue Peter,” Derek repeated, his voice full of pain as his mind leapt to conclusions.

Stiles didn’t meet his gaze. He buried his hands in the pockets of his jacket as he turned sharply and walked away.

Derek stared out into the distance, watching as the daylight faded to dusk and the darkness crept in.

The sound of rushing of water reached his ears, like a waterfall. His eyes flew open wide with terror as realisation struck him.

He turned, his heart leaping as Braeden stood before him, her dark eyes staring into the distance. 

“For what we want most, there is a cost that must be paid in the end,” she said slowly.

Derek’s eyes drifted to her hands, her fingers toying with the faded brass necklace that hung around her neck—a heart-shaped music box with the picture of siren moulded into the metal. It looked familiar, looked just like the one Deucalion had sitting beside his organ the night Derek stole the key.

The sound of rushing water filled his head, drowning out all thought.

Derek stepped around her and ran to Chris. “Argent, ahead!”

“Aye, we're good and lost now,” the man replied nonchalantly, steering the wheel unperturbed.

“Lost?” Stiles gasped, making his way up from the deck below at the sound of Derek’s shouting.

“For certain, you have to be lost to find a place as can't be found,” Chris answered. “Otherwise, everyone would know where it was.”

Derek ran to the railing of the ship, looking over at the dark water that streamed by them. “We're gaining speed.”

“Aye,” Chris replied.

Stiles looked at Derek, his dark eyes wide and full of panic.

“To stations!” Derek ordered. “All hands to stations! Rudder full. Hard to port! Gather way.”

“Belay that!” Chris shouted over him, his voice carrying through the night air. “Let her run straight and true!”

“It’s the edge of the world,” Stiles realised. He turned to Argent, his face lit with fury. “You bastard. You've doomed us all.”

“Don't be so unkind,” the man said, stepping away from the wheel. He slid a finger beneath Stiles’ chin, coaxing the young man to look up at him. “You may not survive to pass this way again, and these will be the last friendly words you'll hear.”

The sound of rushing water was deafening.

The ship’s wheel began to spin, moved by the tow of water as they neared the edge.

He stepped away from Stiles, coiling his arm around one of the by-line ropes and standing proud on the railing.

“Hold on!” Derek ordered, reaching for a rail. His fingers brush against the wood, clawing as he struggled to get a grip on the slick, icy banister.

Stiles grabbed a by-line, coiling the coarse rope around his numb hands. His feet slipped from beneath him as the boat began to tip, the rope sliding through his weak grip. The rope burnt at his skin, searing agony tearing through his veins as he struggled to hold his grip.

The rope slipped again.

A cry slipped past his lips as he lost his grip, his body sliding down the deck as the hull of the ship tipped too far to be saved and they plummeted over the edge of the world.


	3. III

The abysmal stretch of blinding white oblivion stretched into nothingness—no horizon, no shadows, no end.

The dark wood of the deck and railing stood out in the glaring light, the ship somehow staying upright and balanced on its keel among the flat arid plain.

The endless silence was disturbed by the chatter of voices, the movement across the deck, and the thundering bang of his weathered old leather boots striking the decking.

His pale blue eyes scanned the ship, his face set in a scowl. His heavy leather coat sat on his shoulders, his vest hanging open—unbuttoned. The white shirt beneath it stained with dirt and blood. His brown hair was pulled back from his face.

Figures moved about the ship—illusions of himself acting out different roles.

He stalked across the ship towards a version of himself that was shirtless, his tanned skin covered in tattoos as he stood by the tack line.

“Mr. Hale?” he called, his voice carrying through the vastness.

“Aye, captain,” the man said, bolting upright and turning to face him.

“What say you about the condition of this tack line?” Peter asked, nodding towards the length of coal-black rope that hung loose, tied to the corner of the sail and fastened in place by the railing.

“It is proper to my eyes, sir,” the man replied.

“Proper?” Peter scoffed. “It is neither proper, nor suitable. It is not acceptable, nor adequate. It is—in obvious fact—an abomination.”

“Begging your pardon, sir,” the man apologised sheepishly. “But if you gave a man another chance.”

Peter froze, his icy-blue eyes focused on the man as his voice dropped, low and cold as he repeated the words back, “Another chance…”

In a flurry of movement, Peter drew his sword and ran the man through.

The sickening sound of metal tearing through flesh reached his ears as he pushed the sword in to the hilt, leaning in close as he whispered. “It's that sort of thinking got us into this mess.”

He drew back, pulling the blade free and letting the man’s body drop to the deck with a heavy _thud_.

“We have lost speed and, therefore, time. Precious time, which cannot be recovered once lost,” Peter mused, wiping his sword clean on a piece of rag cloth before sliding it back into his sheath. He turned back to the rest of the crew—the illusions that watched on with shocked expressions. “Do you understand?”

“Aye, captain,” they repeated in chorus.

“Do you now? It will all have to be redone. All of it,” Peter shouted as he stormed across the deck, making his way to the front of the ship. “And let this serve as a lesson to the lot of you. I have no sympathy for any of you and no more patience to pretend otherwise.”

He climbed up onto the railing and grabbed a rope, kicking it free of the hook it was coiled around and looping it around his arm.

“Gentlemen,” he said dramatically. “I wash my hands of this weirdness.”

He leapt off the bow of the ship, the rope pulling taut as he swung through the air. His feet landed on the solid ground with a heavy thump.

He looked out across the arid plains, the endless stretch of white earth, parched and cracked like the desert.

He let out a heavy sigh, glancing down at his feet where a smooth white rock sat. He picked it up, admiring the specks of grey that covered it. He shrugged and tossed it into the distance, listening as it bounced across the earth—the sound echoing into the oblivion.

He turned and walked away from the ship, musing quietly to himself, “You’ll go mad in the Locker, Peter. You’ll start talking to yourself. At least this is the most intelligent conversation I’ve had in years.”

The silence of the plains was disturbed by the sound of scuttering.

Peter froze.

The world fell silent again.

He turned around, looking across the cracked earth, but nothing was there.

“Huh,” he muttered. As he moved to turn away again, he glanced down at his feet.

A rock lay at the scuffed toes of his boots.

Peter’s brow furrowed quizzically. He bent over and picked up the rock, turning it over in his hands as he eyed it suspiciously.

He shook his head and tossed it across the cracked earth, listening to it bounce.

He turned away again.

“Now I’m being followed by rocks,” he muttered as he walked away. “Never had that before.”

The sun beat against him, salty beads of sweat gathering on his brow as he wandered about the arid plains.

The sound so scuttering caught his attention again. His brow furrowed in confusion as he turned to look at where the sound was coming from. He watched as the speckled white rocks broke apart, morphing into crabs with hardened shells.

The crabs scurried across the ground, moving towards the ship and swarming around the dark wooden hull. They began to topple over each other, rolling like the foaming white caps on waves.

Peter blinked in surprise, trying to clear the vision from his mind.

The glaring sun was interrupted as a shadow passed over him.

He opened his eyes again, watching as the ship began to move across the dry earth.

He took in the sight of the barnacles that clung to the hull, the ashy black wood and the darkened, dirt-smeared windows and shadowy openings for the canons. The sails flickered and billowed, the canvas crackling as it was disturbed by movement rather than a breeze.

The glaring light of the sun flickered as it filtered through the holes in the canvas.

Peter stood still, watching as the ship cruised by.

He reached out and grabbed the thick length of black rope he had used to leap off the ship, coiling it around his arm and hauling himself back up onto the deck as the ship sailed on the rolling waves of crabs.

The foaming waves lapped at the shore, rolling back and forth as they dragged themselves out of the water and onto dry land.

Scott pushed himself to his feet, pushing his hair back from his face as he looked across the arid plains.

“This truly is a godforsaken place,” he uttered.

“I don't see Peter,” Stiles said, stepping up to Scott’s side. “I don't see anyone.”

“He's here,” Chris reassured him, trudging onto the dry land. “Deucalion would never give up what he fought so hard to take.”

“Does it matter?” Derek snapped. “We're trapped here because of you. Even if we do find Peter, we’re no better off than him.”

Stiles turned to see Braeden gather up the fabric of her skirt, bending down to pick up a small crab.

She held it gently, running her finger across its speckled white shell. A twisted smile worked its way onto her face as she said, “Peter is closer than you think.”

Stiles frowned in confusion. He opened his mouth to say something but fell silent as something caught his eye.

The ash-black canvas sails billowed and wavered as they rose above the crest of a nearby sand dune. Rolling waves of white crabs churned beneath the dark hull, coursing through the white sand and moving the ship forward.

Atop the main mast stood a figure, holding onto the wooden pillar with one hand as he looked out across the glistening water—defiant and proud.

Peter.

The others watched on, amazed, as the _Lunar Eclipse _sailed over the crest of the sand dune and slid into the ocean. The crabs disappeared beneath the churning waves as the ship settled in the calm waters.

Peter climbed down from the mast, leaping overboard and made his way over to them.

The others rushed forward to greet the man as he stepped ashore and stalked across the white sand towards them.

Stiles took a step forward but froze. His smile of relief fell from his face as his stomach tensed and guilt set in.

“McCall,” Peter called out.

“Aye,” Scott replied, stopping by Peter’s side.

“There's been a perpetual and virulent lack of discipline upon my vessel,” Peter said, his voice level as he levelled his icy blue eyes on Scott.

“Peter,” Scott said quietly, trying to keep his voice calm. “You're in Davy Jones' Locker.”

“I know that,” Peter replied, his voice low and cold. “I know damn well where I am _and_ how I got here.”

“Peter Hale,” Chris called out, burying his hands in the pocket of his heavy coat as he took a step forward.

Peter turned to the man, a charming smile lighting his face.

“Christopher,” he said, his silky voice full of charm. “It's been too long, hasn't it?”

“Aye. Isla de Muerta, remember?” Argent replied. “You shot me.”

Peter froze, his eyes widening.

“No, I didn't,” he denied. He quickly turned and moved on, smiling as his eyes fell upon Braeden. “Ah, Braeden, how lovely to see you. You add a touch of macabre to any delirium.” 

Derek’s brow furrowed. “He thinks we're a hallucination.”

Peter stepped over to his nephew’s side, leaning forward until he was in the young man’s face, his pale blue eyes levelled with Derek’s.

“Tell me something,” Peter said quietly. “Have you come because you need my help to save a certain distressing damsel, or rather damoiseau, or dudemar? Either one.”

“No,” Derek answered.

“Well then, you wouldn't be here, would you?” Peter asked. “So you can't be here. Q.E.D., you're not really here.”

“Peter.”

The voice made Peter freeze, the facade of composure and calmness falling from his face. HIs blood ran cold in his veins, rage brewing behind his eyes as he turned to look at Stiles.

“This is real,” Stiles said quietly. “We're really here.”

“Then I guess the only good news is that you’re here,” Peter snarled, pivoting on his ankle and storming away from the young man.

“We've come to rescue you,” Stiles called out, chasing after Peter.

“Have you, now?” he scoffed. “That's very kind of you. But it would seem—since I possess a ship and you do not—that you're the ones in need of rescuing, and I'm not sure that I'm in the mood.”

“I see my ship,” Chris said. He turned and pointed at the _Eclipse_. “Right there.”

“I can't see it,” Peter said, holding his hand up to his brow to shield his face from the sun as he peered out across the shimmering blue water. “It must be a tiny little thing, hiding somewhere behind the _Eclipse_.”

“Peter, Gerard Argent has the heart of Deucalion,” Derek said. “He controls the _Alpha_. He's taking over the seas.”

“The song has been sung,” Braeden told him.

“The Brethren Court is called,” Chris added.

Peter rolled his eyes. “I leave you alone for a minute and look what happens; everything's gone to hell.”

“The world needs you back,” Scott said.

“And you need a crew,” Derek added.

Peter turned sharply, glaring at each of them.

“Why should I sail with any of you?” Peter asked. “Five of you have tried to kill me in the past, one of you succeeded.”

Derek’s brow furrowed with confusion as he exchanged glances with Lydia, Chris, and Braeden. They looked back at him with equally confused expressions. Derek opened his mouth to ask what his uncle meant when a thought struck him.

He turned to look at Stiles.

Stiles dropped his gaze.

“Oh, he hasn’t told you,” Peter said, a hint of amusement in his voice. “Then I guess you'll have lots to talk about while you're here. As for you...”

He turned to face Lydia.

A mischievous smile lifted up the corners of her rosy-pink lips as she said, “Don't tell me you didn't enjoy it at the time.”

Peter seemed to think about it for a second before nodding.

“Fair enough. You're in. McCall, you can come. Isaac...” He paused before shrugging. He pointed at Allison. “No, don’t trust you.”

He moved along the line of people in the sand, stopping before a young woman with long dark hair tied back from her face.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“Kira Yukimura,” she answered. She nodded over her shoulder to the group of people standing behind her. “These are my men.”

Peter looked them each over before turning back to Kira. “Where do your allegiances lie?”

“With the highest bidder,” she replied.

Peter turned and pointed at the _Eclipse. _“I have a ship.”

“That makes you the highest bidder.”

“Good. Weigh anchor. Prepare to make sail,” Peter ordered. He pulled the small leather-bound case of his compass from his belt and flipped open the lid. He looked down at the dial, watching as it spun in circles frantically.

“Peter...”

Peter turned, his eyes settling on Chris. Derek, Stiles and Allison stood either side of him, watching Peter.

A smug smirk lifted up the corner of his mouth, his fingers drumming against the rolled bamboo of the charts. “Which way are you going, Peter?”


	4. VI

Stiles sat on the bottom of the stairs that led into the cabins below the deck, engulfed by the dark shadows and surrounded by the familiar sounds of boots striking the deck and the old ship creaking as it swayed on the waves.

He stared down at his hands, only glancing up when he heard footsteps come towards him.

He looked up at Derek, his long dark hair pulled back from his face and his eyes full of betrayal.

“You left Peter to the Kraken,” he said bluntly, his voice quiet.

“I had to,” Stiles said, looking down at his hands again. “The Kraken wasn’t after us, it was after him, and as long as he was with us there was no where we could go where we’d be safe.”

“So you left him to die.”

“It’s not as if he’s an innocent man,” Stiles replied. “Not all of us can be the hero, Derek. Not all of us can make the right choices. Some of us have to make mistakes. Some of us have to get our hands a little bloody sometimes.”

Stiles stood up, taking in a measured breath as he tried to calm his racing heartbeat.

“I know what I did was wrong,” Stiles admitted. “But I did what I had to do. He's back now. It's done with.”

“I saw,” Derek told him, his voice quiet. He couldn’t meet Stiles’ gaze. “I saw you kiss him.”

“It meant nothing,” Stiles replied.

“You mean, you only kissed him to get what you wanted?” Derek prompted. He looked up, meeting Stiles’ gaze—a fire burning behind his aventurine eyes. “I guess it was no different with me.”

Stiles felt his heart drop. He looked up at Derek, his eyes wide with shock.

“It is different,” Stiles argued. “Derek, I love you.”

Derek dropped his gaze and turned away from him.

“Derek, I had no choice,” Stiles said pleadingly.

“You chose not to tell me,” Derek said.

“I couldn't. It wasn't your burden to bear.”

“But I did bear it, didn't I?” Derek said, turning back to face Stiles. “I just didn't know what it was. I thought...”

Realisation washed over Stiles as he pieced together where Derek was going with this. “You thought I loved him. Derek…”

“If you make your choices alone, how can I trust you?” Derek asked.

Stiles felt his stomach twist into knots, his chest aching as tears welled in his eyes. His dark eyes were full of heartbreak, his voice strained as he answered, “You can't.”

He stepped around Derek and hurried up the stairs, leaving the man alone in the darkness of the galley and the silence that settled around him.

As night settled, the world around them was immersed in darkness.

The dark sky stretched into oblivion above them, scattered stars glittering like diamonds. The inky black abyss of the water mirrored the sky, the silvery moonlight and glimmering stars sparkling on the rippling waves.

Isaac sat on the bow of the ship, his legs fitted through the railing and hanging over the edge of the ship. His bright blue eyes were focused on the rippling waters when something caught his eye—bodies drifting by, submerged beneath the water.

Isaac leant back from the railing, not taking his eyes off the sea as he turned his head slightly and called over his shoulder, “There’s bodies in the water.”

The others rushed over to the railings, looking down at the ghostly figures that were dressed in white, their billowing hair and the fabric of their clothes streaming weightlessly as they drifted by.

Braeden stood by the ropes, her face twisted by pain and anger as she looked down at the passing souls. “They should be in the care of Deucalion. That was the duty he was charged with by the goddess, Calypso; to ferry those who die at sea to the other side.”

Derek glanced at her.

“In return, every ten years, he could come ashore to be with one he loved... The one who loved him… truly…” Her voice drifted off as she absentmindedly toyed with the locket that hung around her neck. “But the man has become a monster.”

“You mean, he wasn't always...?” Scott asked, his sentence trailing off before he could find the words.

“No,” Braeden replied, her voice quiet and full of pain. A small smile crept on to her face, reminiscent and sweet. “He was a man...”

Her fingers caressed the carved metal of the locket.

Her smile fell from her face, her voice cold and full of anger as she said, “...once.”

Isaac’s eyes drifted to the horizon, where the hazy orange glow of lanterns grew brighter—closer. He squinted, making out the shapes of the small wooden boats that drifted across the waters towards them.

He rose to his feet and stepped away from the railing. He gently nudged Derek, pulling the man’s attention away from Braeden as he pointed towards the horizon. “There's boats coming.”

Scott hurried into the galley, returning with a rifle. He readied it, loading the gun and taking aim.

Derek grabbed the barrel of the gun, coaxing Scott to lower it.

“They're not a threat to us,” he reassured Scott. He glanced over his shoulder at Braeden. “Am I right?”

“We are nothing but ghosts to them,” she answered.

“It's best just let them be,” Chris added, his deep blue eyes full of pain and sorrow as he watched the boats approach.

The people in the boats were still, their eyes unfocused as they stared at the unending seas ahead of them. The wooden lifeboats rocked on the undulating waves, but the passengers didn’t seem to notice. Men, women, and children; peasants, sailors, and noblemen alike.

The crew gathered around the railing, silent as they watched them drift by.

Stiles’ eyes drifted across the faces, his eyes focusing on one man.

His weary hazel eyes were unfocused, his thinning short brown hair tousled by the slight breeze. He was dressed in his fine robes, a teal jacket embroidered with a fine floral design—the gold and pearly white thread glimmering in the glow of the lantern that hung at the front of his boat.

Stiles let out a sigh of relief, a smile brightening his face.

“It's my father,” he said excitedly. “We've made it back.”

Derek looked from Stiles to Braeden, her eyes full or sadness as she shook her head. A horrified expression twisted Derek’s face as he turned back to look at the man in the boat.

“Dad!” Stiles called out to him. “Dad, over here!”

Peter felt his heart sink into his gut, his chest tightening. He wanted to badly to get back at Stiles, but not like this.

“Stiles,” he said softly, catching the young man’s attention.

Stiles turned to look at him, his face lit with a smile as the glow of the lanterns lit his dark eyes.

Peter’s voice quiet, his words catching in his throat as he looked at Stiles. His deep blue eyes were full of empathy and pain as he said, “We're not back.”

Peter’s heart sank into his gut as the smile dropped from Stiles’ face and a look of realisation washed over the young man.

Realisation gave way to distress as Stiles looked back at his dad, his lips quivering as glistening tears welled in his eyes. 

Derek tried to reach across to him, but he wasn’t quick enough.

Stiles pulled away, hurrying down the side of the ship as he tried to keep up with his father’s boat as it drifted by.

“Dad!”

The man slowly turned his head. His cloudy hazel eyes finding Stiles’ face.

“Stiles?” he called out. “Are you dead?”

“No.”

“I think I am,” he said quietly.

“No, you can't be,” Stiles cried, fighting back the tears that blurred his vision.

“There was this chest, you see,” his father mused.

Peter’s blood ran cold, his eyes widening with shock as he immediately realised what the man was talking about.

“It's odd,” Governor Stilinski continued. “At the time it seemed so important.”

“Come aboard,” Stiles shouted out to him, but it was as if the man couldn’t hear him.

“There was a heart,” he continued. “I learned that if you stab the heart, yours must take its place. And you will sail the seas for eternity… _The Alpha_ must have a captain.”

The words rang in Derek’s head.

Governor Stilinski let out a dry chuckle. “Such a silly thing to die for.”

“Someone cast a line,” Stiles begged.

Isaac grabbed a length or rope, passing it to Stiles.

Stiles tossed the rope, watching it unfurl in the air and fall slack across his father’s lap.

“Come back with us!” he begged.

The man didn’t move.

“Come on. Take the rope,” Stiles pleaded

Braeden took a step closer to Derek, her voice low as she uttered, “A touch... of destiny.”

“Take the line,” Stiles cried, his voice ringing out through the darkness.

His father looks up at him, tears welling in his eyes. A soft smile lifted up the corners of his mouth as he looked at his son lovingly. “I'm so proud of you, Stiles.”

“Dad, take the line,” he begged, tears glistening in the moonlight as they streamed down his cheeks. “Please, just take the line!”

His dad didn’t move.

The rope slid back across his lap, falling slack in the water and drifting out of the man’s reach.

“Dad!” Stiles started off towards the stern, sprinting up the stairs,

“Don’t let him leave the ship!” Braeden shouted.

Peter stood still as everyone ran after Stiles.

Derek reached him first, wrapping his arm around the young man’s waist before he could jump into the water.

“No!” Stiles screamed, his tears streaming down his cheeks. “I won't leave you! Dad!”

Governor Stilinski’s boat drifted past the ship. “I'll give your love to your mother.”

“Please, I won't let you go!” Stiles cried out, thrashing about in Derek’s arms.

“Stiles,” Derek said softly as he pulled Stiles away from the railing and turned him around in his arms, holding him close as Stiles collapsed against him.

The others gathered around, their eyes full of sorrow.

Derek looked at Braeden pleadingly. “Is there a way?”

Braeden shook her head. “He’s at peace.”


	5. V

The setting sun at dusk bathed everything in a golden glow. The azure blue sky was streaked with smears of orange, pink and purple.

Derek stood at the railing of the ship, watching the undulating waves of the open water that stretched into oblivion. He glanced over to where Stiles sat nearby on the bottom of the stairs that led to the higher deck.

He sat with his knees pulled up to his chest, his dark eyes bloodshot and unfocused as he stared down at his hands and fidgeted with his fingers. His cheeks were stained with tears, clearing away the dirt and grime that covered his pale cheeks.

Derek left him to his thoughts—not wanting to intrude, and not knowing what to say.

“If we cannot escape these doldrums before night, we’re doomed to sail on trackless seas, roaming the reach between worlds forever,” Braeden muttered as she stepped over to Derek’s side.

Derek looked up at Chris.

The man stood by the railing on the poop deck near the wheel, a foot resting on the carved dark wood as he stared into oblivion.

“Why doesn't he do something?” Derek asked.

“The green flash happens at sunset, not sunrise,” Scott said, joining them.

“’Over the edge’,” Lydia recited as she tied off a length of rope. “This whole thing is driving me over the bloody edge.”

Peter was up on the higher deck, arched over the bamboo charts. He spun the circles of the map, trying to line up the outlines of land or the small markings of lettering—trying to find a way out of purgatory.

He slowly turned the outer circle until the black markings of letters lined up, reading the same line as Derek had before; ‘Over the edge. Over again’. He turned it more, lining up the letters on the bottom of the ring. ‘Sunrise sets. Flash of green.’

He shifted the inner circle, lining up the letters.

"‘Up is down’,” he read out loud. He screwed his face up in confusion. “That's just maddeningly unhelpful.”

He let out a heavy sigh, letting his mind drift as the entangled mess of thoughts grew louder—an argument between the two sides of his consciousness.

_Stab the heart. _

_Don't stab the heart; the Dutchman must have a captain._

_Sail the seas for eternity._

_And make port—where we can get rum and enjoy the pleasures of the flesh—once every ten years._

_Ten years is a long time—even longer without rum._

_Eternity is longer. And how will you be spending it? Dead, or not? The immortal Captain Hale._

A small smile lifted the corner of his mouth at that thought. But come sunset, it wouldn’t matter.

A thought struck him. He straightened his back, blinking in surprise.

“Not sunset; sun_down_,” he corrected himself. He spun the picture in the middle of the map, turning the ship upside down so that the splash of green that was painted beneath it pointed upwards—a flash of green lighting the sky. “And rise up.”

He bolted upright, his sapphire blue eyes darting back and forth.

“What's that?” he shouted, sprinting down the stairs and over to one side of the ship.

Scott and Derek turned, hurrying over to his side. They followed his gaze out to sea, looking at nothing.

“What is that?” Peter asked, dragging out the charade.

“Where?” Scott asked.

“There,” Peter said, pointing into the vast blueness. He whipped his head around. “Look!”

He turned and ran to the other side of the ship. Scott and Derek followed, few more people joining them as a crowd began to gather by the railing.

Chris stepped back from the raining and watched as the crew ran back and forth, gathering more and more people each time.

Stiles rose from his seat on the stairs and ran to the railing by Derek. He followed their gaze out to the horizon. “What is it?”

“There!” Peter shouted, pointing to the other side of the ship before sprinting across the deck.

Chris furrowed his brow in confusion. He stepped over to the table where Peter had been, looking down at the map. A smirk lifted the corner of his lips as he looked at the picture of the ship.

“You clever bastard,” Chris uttered under his breath, rolling up the map and strapping it to the small of his back.

“We're rocking the ship,” Scott called out, alarmed.

“Aye,” Chris shouted in reply.

He made his way down the stairs, unphased.

“Time it with the swell,” he told Peter, watching the waves crash against the hull of the ship.

He crossed the ship amid the rocking hull and made his way down into the gallows.

“Let loose the cannons!” he howled, startling everyone into moving. “Unstow the cargo. Let it shift.”

The crew began to move about the hull, untying the cargo. Barrels and cannons rolled back and forth in time with the rocking ship.

The ship tilted back and forth, the side rising higher and higher as the weight threatened to capsize the ship.

Chris joined them as they sprinted from one side to the other.

They threw themselves onto the railing, grabbed onto the carved wood as the ship tilted high enough that their feet were lifted from the decking.

Stiles dug his fingers into the wood. His heart lurched into his throat as the weight of the ship shifted.

The hull rose out of the water, their bodies hanging weightlessly in the air.

“Now up… is down.” Peter said as the ship capsized.

The crashing waves engulfed the ship with a deafening roar as the water rose to meet them.

Stiles drew in a deep breath, holding it as the foaming waved rushed over him and knocked him about.

The world fell silent as the deafening noise drained away.

The waves slammed Derek against the railing. He lost his grip, falling back into the rolling waves.

Stiles tried to call out for him, reaching out for the man with one hand but he couldn’t reach.

Chris caught Stiles before he lost his grip on the railing.

Stiles watched as Derek sank into the water.

Derek thrashed about until he caught a hold of the mast. He grabbed one of the ropes and coiled it around his arm, holding on tight as his body drifted weightlessly.

Small bubbles tickled Stiles’ cheeks as they rose, escaping the turbulent, churning water. He felt his eyes burn with redundant tears that were swept away by the waves that lashed at him.

The fabric of his clothes billowed around him as he hung onto the railing.

He felt his chin tremble as he fought to keep his mouth shut but the longer he was beneath the water, the harder it became. He was fighting off the instinct to draw breath, knowing there was nothing around him but merciless water. It felt as if his lungs were consumed by a raging inferno, the jagged claws of firebirds tearing at the tissue as they tried to dig their way out of his chest.

He held his breath and closed his eyes, but no matter how much he willed it away, the water was still there and the reality of his mortality was creeping closer ever so slowly.

Every second dragged on as if time was suspended in oblivion, making every second of pain and torment longer and more agonising.

He felt another wave of tears well in his eyes as thick saliva rose in his throat, suffocating him. His body shuddered as he fought back his sobs.

He opened his eyes, looking at Chris beside him.

Everyone exchanged confused looks, wondering what was meant to happen next.

Stiles felt the darkness creep into the edge of his vision, the dying light of the setting sun making the abysmal depths of the ocean all the more ominous.

The sun sank beneath the horizon.

The world lit up in a flash of green.

A deafening roar filled Stiles’ ears.

He looked down, watching as bubbling water rushed towards them from the depths of the sea.

There was a loud crash as the ship broke through the surface.

Stiles opened his mouth, letting the rush of fresh air fill his lungs.

They collapsed against the wet deck, gasping for air as water spilled over the edges of the ship, draining through the gaps in the rails.

The ship rocked slightly as it steadied itself on its keel.

Stiles coughed and spluttered, raking his fingers through his wet hair back from his eyes. He blinked to clear the salty sea water that stung his eyes.

He looked up to see Derek slowly untangle himself from the ropes and lower himself from the mast., his heavy boots striking the deck as he coughed up water.

Stiles’ eyes drifted towards the horizon. He slowly rose to his feet, watching as the glaring light played across the rippling surface of the water. He watched, mesmerised, as the sun rose into the sky.

“Sunrise,” he whispered breathlessly.

His voice seemed to catch everyone’s attention as they all looked towards the rising sun.

“We made it back,” Lydia gasped.

There was barely a second of peace before Chris drew his pistol and aimed it at Peter.

In a flurry of movement Derek, Scott and Stiles drew theirs, aiming them at Chris.

Peter pulled his pistol from his belt and aimed it at Derek.

Derek drew a second pistol from the small of his back and pointed it at Peter. Stiles did the same, his eyes darting between Peter and Chris.

Peter drew his other pistol and pointed it at Stiles.

Stiles levelled him with an exasperated look.

“The Brethren Court is gathering at Shipwreck Cove,” Chris told Peter firmly. “And you and I are going. There'll be no arguing that.”

“But I be arguing that,” Peter replied mockingly. “If the Brethren Court is gathering, I'm pointing my ship the other way.”

Stiles turned his gun away from Chris, aiming both his pistols at Peter. “The pirates are gathering to fight Lord Argent, and you're a pirate.”

“There are too many Argent’s in this world,” Peter retorted, shooting a glare at Chris. “It’s very confusing.”

“Fight or not, you're not running, Peter,” Derek said, pointing both guns at his uncle.

“If we don't stand together, they'll hunt us down one by one until there’s no one left but you,” Chris argued.

A coy smirk played across Peter’s mouth. “I quite like the sound of that. Captain Peter Hale, the last pirate.”

“Aye,” Chris said. His voice grew cold as he added, “And you'll be fighting Deucalion on your own.”

“So be it,” Peter said defiantly. “I’ll work something out. I always do. But I will not be going back to the Locker, mate. Count on that. Either way—”

He turned both his guns on Stiles, his glare cold and focused.

“I’m sending you back.”

Stiles lowered his pistols, his face void of any emotion as he met Peter’s gaze. “Go ahead.”

Peter pulled the trigger, flinching as the pistol clicked and squirted water.

Stiles rolled his eyes, letting out a breathless laugh as he holstered his gun. “Wet powder.”

The others slowly lowered their pistols, feeling embarrassed.

“There might be a fresh water spring on that island,” Stiles said, turning his backs on them and pointing towards the land mass not too far away. “We can resupply there and get back to shooting each other later.”

“You lead the shore party,” Peter told Chris. “I'll stay with my ship.”

“I'll not be leaving _my_ ship in your command,” Chris objected.

“When you two are finished,” Stiles said shortly, silencing them. “You’re both going ashore.”

“And I suppose we’re meant to leave you in charge of the ship in our absence?” Peter scoffed.

“No, I’m coming too,” Stiles told him. “Someone has to make sure you two don’t kill each other to leave the other stranded. Derek’s in charge while we’re gone.”

“Who gave you the authority to make that call?” Peter asked.

“It’s either Derek or Lydia,” Stiles told him. “And I don’t doubt for a second that Lydia wouldn’t hesitate in abandoning the two of you.”

Peter glanced over his shoulder at the young woman.

Lydia flashed him a charming smile, but there was a devilish glint of mischief in her eye that told him that Stiles was right.

“It’s your call,” Stiles said, turning his back on the man and stepping over to one of the row boats

Peter pouted but didn’t reply.

“Good,” Stiles said with finality. “Let’s go.”


	6. VI

The waves lapped at the shore.

Peter looked down at his feet, at the scorched sand—charred and as black as ash. His eyes drifted across the shore to the large beast that was beached.

Its scaly body was torn and bloody, chunks of flesh torn from its body. Its tentacles were sprawled across the sand, unmoving; lifeless.

Peter felt his heart sink a little as he took a few steps towards the dead beast, stunned by the sight.

The kraken.

The beast that had tormented him for years now lay dead in front of him, but he didn’t feel relieved—he didn’t feel free. He felt his gut twist and tie itself in knots.

He pitied the beast. And what’s more, he felt a shiver run up his spine, the icy feeling of dread and fear seeping into his veins.

Chris followed him down the shore, stopping beside Peter and looking into the clouded classy eye of the beast.

“Still thinking of running, Peter?” he asked quietly. “You think you can outrun the world?”

Peter didn’t reply—he just stared at the kraken’s dead body.

Chris let out a measured breath. “You know the problem with being the last of anything? You’re the last, and eventually, there’ll be none left at all.”

“Sometimes things come back,” Peter said, his voice weak and breaking. He didn’t take his eyes off the kraken—he couldn’t. “We're living proof—you and me.”

“Aye,” Chris said quietly. “But it’s a gamble of long odds, isn’t it? There's never a guarantee of coming back. But passing on… That's dead certain.”

Peter drew in a deep breath. “So, we’re summoning the Brethren Court, then?”

“It's our only hope,” Chris answered.

“That's a sad commentary in and of itself,” Peter said teasingly.

Chris let out a dejected sigh, his pale eyes drifting out to the distant horizon. “The world used to be a bigger place.”

“The world's still the same,” Peter said. “There's just... less in it.”

They made their way inland, following the trial that had been worn through the thicket.

The dry husks of leaves and scattered sticks crackled beneath their feet, the rich smell of sweet petrichor filling their lungs as they walked along the muddy train and further into the woods. The trees towered over them, beams of light shining through the wavering canopy as it was rustled by the breeze.

Crystal-like droplets of dew gathered on the wavering blades of grass and stunning flowers that grew along the edge of the path, filling the undergrowth with bursts of colour: white, purple, orange, yellow, and blue.

Peter couldn’t shake the image of the kraken from his mind, or the lingering feeling of his mortality.

He could hear the sound of rushing water over the rise, following the track up the rocky include before looking down at the pool of clear water surrounded by grey slate that was covered in patches of soft green moss and small ferns that were growing between the rocks. The water cascaded down the rocks like a veil of lace, glistening smaller rivulets running along the surrounding rocks.

Isaac lingered on the ridge, looking back at the shore and watching for approaching figures as the rest of them made their way down the incline.

Stiles’ pace faltered as his eyes fell upon the body lying in the stream.

Chris took another step forward, scooping up a handful of water and sipping at it. He screwed up his face and spat it out.

“The water’s been poisoned,” he said.

“I don’t think that’s what killed him,” Peter countered, nodding towards the man.

Chris stepped into the shallows of the pool of water, grabbing the dead man’s shoulder and rolling him over.

They flinched at the sight of the wooden spike that impaled the man’s head.

“I know him,” Allison said quietly. “He was in Japan.”

“Captain!” Isaac shouted from the ridge.

Chris and Peter turned to look at him in unison.

“We’ve got company!”

Isaac pointed back towards the still ocean waters where a second ship sailed up alongside the _Eclipse_.

There was an unmistakable _click_ of a cocked pistol.

Stiles slowly turned his head, watching as Kira and her men drew their guns and aimed them at the crew.

Stiles hoisted himself up the ladder and climbed aboard the _Eclipse_.

His dark eyes scanned the deck, drifting to where the rest of the crew stood at gunpoint, their hands tied together behind their backs with lengths of rope.

In front of them stood a woman, draped in fine embroidered omi that billowed around her in the breeze. Her long dark hair wasn’t tied back, the ebony-black locks sitting around her face. Her dark eyes met Stiles gaze.

Noshiko Yukimura.

A raging fire burnt behind Stiles’ eyes as he levelled his glare on the woman. One of her men stepped forward, grabbing Stiles’ arm and holding him in place.

“Yukimura,” Chris greeted, flashing a charming smile as he stepped in front of Stiles, ushering the young man behind him slightly. “You showing up here is truly a remarkable coincidence.”

Yukimura didn’t reply. She looked over his shoulder at Peter.

“Peter Hale,” she said, her voice cold as she stepped towards him. “You paid me great insult once.”

“That doesn't sound like me,” Peter said.

There was a sickening crack as Yukimura’s fist slammed into Peter’s jaw, knocking the man back.

Peter staggered and regained his footing, rubbing his jaw. He slowly turned to look back at her.

“Shall we just call it square, then?” Peter bargained.

Derek elbowed his way through the crowd.

“Release him,” he ordered, pointing at Stiles. “He's not part of the bargain.”

Stiles blinked in surprise, his brow furrowed in confusion.

“And what bargain be that?” Chris asked, looking at Derek.

“You heard Captain Hale,” Yukimura said. “Release him!”

One of Yukimura’s men let got of Stiles, shoving him towards Derek.

“‘Captain Hale’?” Peter scoffed.

“The perfidious rotter led a mutiny against us,” Argent seethed.

“I need the _Eclipse_ to free my sister,” Derek explained, no hint of remorse in his voice. “That's the only reason I came on this voyage.”

“Why didn't you tell me you were planning this?” Stiles asked, stepping up to Derek side, a hurt expression on his face.

“It was my burden to bear,” Derek recited back to him.

Stiles froze, an icy chill running through his veins as his rage turning to pain. He looked at Derek, his chest tight and his lips quivering as unspoken words caught in his throat.

Derek didn’t meet his gaze.

Stiles opened his mouth to say something, but Peter interrupted, pulling himself free from one of the soldier’s grasp and stepping forward.

“He needs the _Eclipse_. _Captain_ Hale needs the Eclipse,” he said dramatically. He pointed at Stiles. “You felt guilty.” He turned to face Chris. “You came on behalf of the Brethren Court. Did no one come to save me just because they missed me?”

The rest of the crew exchanged glances, but no one raised their hand.

“That’s a little hurtful,” Peter said.

“You need not worry, Peter,” Yukimura said, taking a step forward. “There is an old friend who wants to see you.”

Peter swallowed hard. “I'm not certain I can survive any more visits from old friends.”

Yukimura grabbed his shoulder, turning him to look at the ship that drew near. “Here is your chance to find out.”

Peter’s heart sank into his gut as his eyes fell on the white sails and the deep blue flag that hung from the main mast. He didn’t need to see the logo printed on it, he knew what it was: East India Trading Company.

He let out a shaky breath, a cold shudder clawing its way up his spine. He felt searing pain burn at his wrist—a memory of the scorching iron brand that the man pressed into his flesh. His eyes were wide with terror, his voice quiet as he uttered, “Argent.”


	7. VII

The guards pushed open the double doors, escorting Peter into the large room. They shoved him forward and shut the door behind him.

Peter stood still for a second, taking in his surroundings.

The walls of the large cabin were decorated with maps and painted portraits. There was a large mahogany table in the centre of the room, scattered pieces of paper and open books lying across the table top. There was a desk down the far end of the cabin. An ink pot and quill sat atop the desk but the table top had been cleared. Down the other end of the room as a second desk, one that was covered in miniature plastic figurines of soldiers that were lined up in ranks. At the front of the betallion was a small figurine that bared a resemblance to Lord Argent. In front of the soldiers were nine battered coins, lined up across the tabletop.

The wall across from him was lined with windows, a shelf full of books running along the length of the wall. The corner of the windows broadened to two glass doors that stepped out onto a balcony where a figure stood in the doorway.

“Curious. Your friends appear to be quite desperate, Hale,” the man mused, his deep voice making Peter’s insides twist in knots. “Perhaps they no longer believe that a gathering of squabbling pirates can defeat the _Alpha_.”

Peter ignores him, stepping over to a nearby table and opening some of the ornate containers and carved wooden boxes. 

“And so despair leads to betrayal,” Gerard said. “But you and I are no strangers to betrayal, are we?”

Peter didn’t reply.

“It's not here, Peter.”

“What isn't?” Peter asked, feigning innocence.

“The heart of Deucalion,” Gerard answered, turning to face Peter. “It's safely aboard the _Alpha_, and so unavailable for you to use as leverage to satisfy your debt to the captain.”

“By my reckoning, that account has been settled,” Peter argued, wandering about the cabin and admiring the maps and trinkets that decorated the space.

“By your death?” Gerard asked. “And yet here you are.”

“Close your eyes and pretend it's all a bad dream,” Peter said, glancing over his shoulder at Gerard before turning his back to the man again. “That's how I get by.”

“And if Deucalion were to learn of your survival?”

Peter froze.

A wicked smirk lifted the corners of Gerard’s mouth. He didn’t have to see Peter’s face to know the terror that filled his eyes.

“Perhaps you'll consider an alternative arrangement, one which requires absolutely nothing from you but information,” Gerard proposed. He stepped over to his desk and opened the glass flask of golden liquor, pouring it into two shimmering crystal glasses.

Peter turned, stepping over to Gerard’s side. He looked down at the man’s desk, picking up the plastic figurine of Lord Argent. His eyes fell upon the nine battered nickel coins that were lined up in the centre of the desk.

“Information regarding the Brethren Court, no doubt, in exchange for fair compensation. You square my debt with Deucalion—” He took the sherry glass that Argent offered him, lifting it to his lips and downing it in one gulp. He took the other glass and downed the drink. “—and guarantee my freedom.”

“Of course,” Argent agreed. “It's just good business.”

“Were I in a divulgatory mood, what then might I divulge?” Peter asked.

“Everything. Where are they meeting? Who are the pirate lords? What is the purpose of the nine pieces of eight?”

Peter reached over the desk and picked up the paper fan that sat nearby. He levelled his eyes on the man. “Before I tell you anything, what will become of my crew?”

“The crew?”

“You can keep your bastard son, Christopher, and his misfit daughter,” Peter bargained, opening the fan with a loud crack and fanning himself. “And Derek—especially Derek. The rest go with me on the _Eclipse_. I'll lead you to Shipwreck Cove, where I will hand you the pirates and you will not hand me to Deucalion. Bloody fair deal, don't you think?”

“And what becomes of Mister Stilinski?” Argent asked.

Peter’s brow furrowed as he looked at Gerard questioningly. “What interest is he to you?”

Men in bright red uniforms climbed aboard the_ Lunar Eclipse_.

Derek stepped over to Noshiko’s side. “You agreed, the _Lunar Eclipse _was to be mine.”

Yukimura’s gaze was cold as she looked at the young man. “And so it was.”

The soldiers grabbed Derek’s arms, pulling him back. He thrashed about, trying to break free. One guard stepped forward, balling his fist and slamming it into Derek’s gut.

Derek choked on his breath, dropping to his knees and gasping for breath.

Stiles pulled himself free of the soldier’s grasp, charging forward. He slammed his body into the soldier’s gut, knocking him back.

The soldier straightened, glaring at Stiles as the young man stood defensively over Derek. He took a step forward, trying to intimidate Stiles.

Stiles flamed his forehead against the man’s face, a gut-wrenching _crack_ filling his ears as blood sprayed across his face.

The man staggered backwards, holding his broken, bloody nose in his hand.

Stiles glared at the man, livid. Rivulets of crimson blood ran down the young man’s face, but he was unphased, his composure unwavering.

Another guard grabbed tiles by his shacked hands, pulling him backwards.

Two soldiers pulled Derek to his feet, tying the man’s hands behind his back before tossing him towards the rest of the crew.

“Prepare the brig,” the General ordered.

“What is to become of the _Lunar Eclipse_?” Noshiko asked.

The General levelled his cold eyes on her. “Argent’s not going to give up the only ship as can outrun the _Alpha_, is he?”

A flash of anger darkened Noshiko’s eyes as the General walked away.

“It’s a shame they're not bound to honour the code of the Brethren, isn't it?” Chris mused under his breath. “Because honour's a hard thing to come by nowadays.”

“There is no honour to remaining with the losing side,” Yukimura told him. “Leaving it for the winning side, that's just good business.”

“The losing side, you say?” Chris asked.

“They have the _Alpha_, and now the _Eclipse_. And what does the Brethren have?”

Chris was quiet for a moment. “We have Calypso.”

The world around them fell silent, name ringing through them all.

Noshiko blinked in confusion, her expression one of surprise and disbelief. “Calypso? An old legend.”

“No. The god themself, bound in human form,” Chris explained. He kept his voice low. “Imagine all the power of the seas brought to bear against our enemy.”

Noshiko seemed to consider it.

“I intend to release her,” Chris told her. “But for that I need the Brethren Court—_all _of the Court.”

Yukimura let out a measured breath. “Including myself.”

“And Peter,” Chris finished.

Yukimura was quiet for a moment.

“What are you proposing, captain?” she asked.

“What would you be accepting, captain?”

Yukimura’s eyes scanned the crew, her eyes settling on the odd one out—the one who was as rageful and unyielding as the seas.

“The boy,” she said, levelling her eyes on Stiles.

“What?” Stiles gasped.

“Stiles is not part of any bargain,” Derek said defensively. “This is out of the question.”

“It was not a question,” Chris said with finality.

“Done,” Stiles says.

“What?” Derek said, turning to Stiles. He looked back at the captains. “Not done.”

“You got us into this,” Stiles hissed under his breath. “If it frees us, then done.”

“Stiles, they are pirates,” Derek said, his voice pleading.

“I have had more than enough experience dealing with pirates,” Stiles growled, his dark eyes looking Derek up and down to make a point.

Derek was taken aback, a glint of hurt filling his eyes.

Stiles turned back to Noshiko and Chris.

“Done,” he said with finality.

Chris took a step forward, holding out his hand to Noshiko. “Then we have an accord?”

“I've just recalled,” Argent started slowly. “I've got this wonderful compass which points to whatever I want.”

He picked up the small leather box that the guard had confiscated off Peter when they dragged him aboard.

“So, for what do I need you?” Argent asked.

“Points to the thing you want most, you say?” Peter repeated back to him. “It’s a shame it’s not the Brethren Court, is it?”

Gerard blinked in surprise. “Then what is it that you think I want most, Peter?”

“Me,” Peter answered, a smirk playing across his lips. His smile fell as he added, “Dead.”

Argent tossed the compass to him.

Peter caught it, looking back at the man in confusion.

“Although, if I kill you, then I can use the compass to find Shipwreck Cove on my own,” Argent said. He drew his pistol and aimed it at Peter. “Cut out the middle man, as it were.”

Peter was unphased.

“With me killed, you'd arrive at the cove to find it a stronghold—impenetrable, able to withstand blockade for years,” the man explained, toying with the compass in his hands. “Then you'd be wishing, ‘If only there was someone inside—someone I hadn’t killed—to ensure that the pirates then come outside’.”

Gerard was silent for a moment.

“Do we have a deal?” Peter asked.

“You’re not exactly the best at keeping your word, are you Peter? We’ve been here before,” Gerard reminded him. “We had a deal, Peter. I contracted you to deliver cargo on my behalf and, instead, you chose to liberate it.”

Peter looked down at the pale ridges of the P that branded the skin of his wrist—the punishment of his betrayal.

“They were people,” Peter seethed under his breath. “Not cargo.”

“What makes this time any different?” Gerard asked, ignoring the man.

“You have something over me,” Peter admitted. “Square my debt with Jones, let my crew go and guarantee my freedom, and I’ll deliver the Brethren Court to you.”

Gerard lowered his gun, levelling his eyes on Peter. “And you can accomplish all that?”

“You may kill me, but you may never insult me.” Peter lifted his gaze and met Gerard’s eyes. “I'm Captain Peter Hale.”

A thundering blast tore through the air, knocking them over as the canon fire tore through the ship. Splinters of wood rained around them.

Peter charged forward, grabbing Gerard’s hand and shaking it.

“Done,” he said quickly before rushing out of the cabin.

He walked through the canon fire and bullets, casually making his way over to one of the canons.

He tugged at a length of rope that was hooked over the beam of the rear mast. He tied the rope around a canon ball and loaded it, taking a second to place the tiny plastic figurine of Lord Argent in the barrel. He coiled the other length of rope around his forearm, grabbing the ignition stick.

Argent followed him up onto the deck, his eyes wide as he looked from the figurine to Peter.

“You're mad.”

“Thank goodness for that,” Peter said, unphased. “If I wasn't, this'd probably never work.”

He lowered the glowing ember of the ignition stick to the wick and lit the canon. 

The canon fired, flinging Peter into the air.

He swung forward, letting go of the rope and hurling himself onto the _Lunar Eclipse._ He landed on his feet, straightening his back and dusting off his leather coat as he looked around at the stunned expressions of the crew.

“And that was without even a single drop of rum,” he boasted.

He took a step forward, levelling his cold glare on his nephew. 

“Take him to the brig,” he ordered.

He stepped up to the stern of the ship, watching as the _Eclipse _left Argent’s ship in its wake. He looked across the seas to where Yukimura’s ship took off in the other direction.


	8. VIII

Stiles stood in the centre of the large room that was the captain’s quarters of the _Nogitsune_. The space was decorated with fine tapestries and hanging lamps.

He was dressed in an ornate black robe, the thick fabric embroidered with silver and gold thread that spiralled into swirling vine-like patterns across his chest. The double-buttoned front of the jacket was decorated with glossy pearls and a thick leather belt was fastened around his waist, an iron buckle carved into a floral shape with a white pearl embedded in the centre of it. Past the waist, the thick cotton was adorned with pieces of black leather that looked like scales.

Noshiko stepped forward. “By this time tomorrow, we will arrive at Shipwreck Cove and you will be free, Calypso.”

Stiles blinked in surprised, his brow furrowed slightly with confusion.

“Excuse me?” he asked, taken aback.

“Not a name you fancy, I imagine, out of the many that you have,” Noshiko said quietly. “The sea nymph who would lure men to their deaths…”

Stiles thought back to Peter, to the day he left him to the kraken. He remembered the kiss, he remembered the shock on Peter’s face as he met the man’s look with his composed glare and latched the handcuffs around Peter’s wrist, leaving him to die.

“The one who controls the raging seas…”

Stiles looked down at the blood-stained rag he had used to clear away the blood on his face. The fabric hung over the edge of the wash basin, the droplets of blood seeping into the water and swirls of red spreading through the bowl.

He could still feel the warmth of the man’s blood dripping down his face and the rage burnt in his blood, searing his veins.

“But of all those names,” Noshiko continued, “Calypso is what we call you.”

“We being who?” Stiles asked.

“So you confirm it?”

“Confirm what? You've told me nothing.”

“The Brethren Court,” Yukimura answered, walking slowly around Stiles.

Stiles followed her with his eyes, not moving his head or turning to face her.

“The First Brethren Court—whose decision I would have opposed—bound you to human form so the rule of the seas would belong to man and not…”

“To me,” Stiles finished.

Noshiko met his gaze, her dark eyes softening as she looked at him with a motherly tenderness. “But one such as you should never be anything less than what you are.”

“A pretty speech from a captor,” Stiles said, his face composed and emotionless. “But words whispered through prison bars lose their charm.”

Noshiko let out a measured sigh, looking away. She continued to pace around the room. “All men are drawn to the sea, despite how perilous it may be. And some men offer desire as justification for their crimes.”

“And what about you?” Stiles asked. “What do you offer as justification?”

“The same—desire,” Noshiko replied. “Although not for riches or for carnal delight. I desire a legacy, to be one of the last pirate lords—a name that no one will forget.”

“And you think I will help you?”

“You have the power to stop the corruption of men who see themselves higher than us,” Noshiko said quietly. “You can stop them from destroying the last of us.”

“And if I should choose not to help you?”

Noshiko stopped pacing not too far from Stiles, a sad look on her face—the look of a woman about to face her fate.

“Then we will take your wrath,” Noshiko answered.

A thundering _boom_ split the air.

Canon blast tore through the side of the ship.

Stiles was hurled backwards.

He struck something solid, letting out a weak grunt before collapsing to the ground.

Splinters of wood and debris rained around him as he lay still, his head pounding as darkness crept into the edges of his vision.

He slowly blinked his eyes open, watching through the haze of smoke as the blur of colours began to clear up and he took in the sight of the destroyed cabin.

“Yukimura?” Stiles mumbled drearily, swallowing hard against the lump in his throat.

There was no reply.

“Yukimura?” he called out, his voice a little louder this time.

He rose to his feet shakily, making his way past the fallen beams, toppled furniture and splintered wood.

Stiles winced as his ears filled with a painful shrieking ringing sound. He blinked away the haze in his eyes, his gaze falling on the woman’s unmoving body.

She lay back against the wall of the cabin, a blood-soaked jagged shard of wood sticking out of her chest.

Stiles felt sick, his gut churning with guilt as his blood ran cold in his veins. He felt a wave of bile rise into his throat, burning him from the inside out as he stumbled forwards.

He stumbled closer.

“Noshiko,” he said weakly, his ears ringing.

He stepped over to her side, his mind numb and the sound of canon fire tearing through the ship deafened. He knelt beside her, his dark eyes darting from the splintered wood that impaled her to her face.

“Please,” the woman rasped.

She pulled a necklace from under the collar of her robe, clutching it tight as she tore it from her neck.

Her voice was broken as she tried to force words out between broken gasps. “With all nine pieces of eight... you will be free.”

She grabbed Stiles’ arm, her hands shaking as she set the necklace in the palm of his hand before balling his fingers around it.

“Take it,” she said firmly, blood gathering on her lips as she struggled to speak. “You are the captain now.”

“Me?” Stiles whispered.

“Go in my place to Shipwreck Cove,” she told him. “Forgive me, Calypso.”

Her hold on his arm weakened, her hand falling away from his. Her head lulled to the side, her dark eyes clouding over as the life drained from her face.

There was a rush of footsteps behind him, the door to the cabin slamming back against the wall as someone came rushing in.

“Captain, the ship has been taken. We cannot—”

Stiles turned to see Kira standing in the doorway, her eyes wide and welling with tears as she looked at her mother’s still body.

“What did she tell you?” Kira demanded.

Stiles swallowed hard and looked down at the necklace in his hand before looking up at Kira again. “She made me captain.”

Up on deck, monstrous figures stormed the _Nogitsune_, led by a large, burly man whose pale flesh was covered in barnacles and coral, forming what looked like plated armour. A cluster of barbs stuck out through the skin of his cheek like a sea urchin.

Behind him was an army of similar looking people, including a pair of boys who looked like identical twins – to the point where the creatures that grew on their flesh were the same – and a woman with long dark hair and pale flesh that looked as if it had been slashed by a creature with large talons and then twisted and caught up in fishing wire.

Others had deformed to look like the creatures of the sea.

Kira sprinted out of the captain’s quarters and into the pouring rain.

Stiles ran after her.

A young woman stepped into their way—her dark hair pulled back by a row of shells and coral that had clustered on her head, forming a crown. Intertwined between the points were barnacles, colourful shells and gems, and strands of seaweed. Molluscs, clams and coral burst through the skin on her hands, forming talons and gauntlets. Her clothes were torn to rags, never repaired, only covered by layers.

She grabbed Kira by her throat, throwing the young woman down against the deck.

The woman raised her sword, the battered metal gleaming in the moonlight.

Stiles threw himself into the woman, knocking her off Kira and tackling her to the deck. He slid across the deck, staggering to his feet as he glared at the woman.

The woman pushed herself to her feet and snarled at him, tightening her grip on her sword.

One of the disfigured crewmembers grabbed Stiles from behind, pulling him back off balance and forcing him down onto his knees.

One of the twins stepped forward, balling his fist and slamming it into Stiles’ face.

Stiles’ body collapsed against the deck with a heavy _thwack_, blood spewing from his lips, but he didn’t let up. He rolled onto his back and kicked out, slamming the heel of his boot into one of the twin’s gut.

His fight didn’t last long; the other twin grabbed him and punched him hard enough that the piercing ringing returned to his ears.

The man forced Stiles to his feet, holding him upright with his arms pinned behind his back.

“Stiles?” a familiar voice called out.

Stiles blinked heavily, clearing the haze from his eyes and looking at the man who approached him.

“Tate?” Stiles muttered.

“Thank God, you're alive,” Henry said with a sigh of relief, looking the young man over. “Your father will be overjoyed to know you're safe.”

“My father's dead,” Stiles said, an icy-cold pain settling in his heart as he said those words for the first time.

“No, that can't be true,” Tate uttered. “He returned to Beacon Hills.”

Stiles let out a breathless laugh. “Did Lord Argent tell you that?”

Tate fell silent, his expression blank as realisation sank in.

Heavy footsteps like thunder stuck the deck as a man stepped forward. The crew of monstrous-looking beings parted as the man stepped forward. Unlike the rest of the crew, this man was pristine: untouched by the sea not time. He was aged, his face creased with wrinkles and his light brown hair thinning, but he didn’t grow weary or show any signs of life wearing him down.

There was no mistaking who he was.

Deucalion.

His unseeing cloudy-grey eyes drifted across the crew of the _Nogitsune_.

“Who among you do you name as captain?” Deucalion demanded.

“Him,” Kira said without hesitation, pointing at Stiles.

Deucalion’s eyes seemed to glow red as he turned his gaze on Stiles.

He raised his brow, surprised.

“Captain?” Deucalion said slowly, almost mockingly—a hint of shock and surprise in his voice as he stepped over to Stiles’ side.

Stiles lifted his chin defiantly, his composure unwavering as he met Deucalion’s gaze.

“Tow the ship,” Tate ordered before Deucalion can do anything. “Put the prisoners in the brig. The captain shall have my quarters.”

“Thank you, sir,” Stiles said sternly, turning his gaze on Tate and looking upon the man as if he were a stranger.

He was no longer the man that had watched Stiles grow up, no longer the man who protected him and watched over him. He was no longer the man who would sit up late at night with Stiles after he had a nightmare—not wanting to wake his parents. He was no longer the man who had taught Stiles how to spar. He was no longer a friend—he was just another soldier; another one of Gerard’s men.

“I’d prefer to remain with my crew,” Stiles finished.

“So be it,” Deucalion said, ending their conversation.

He turned and made his way back to the _Alpha_.

Stiles wrenched himself free from the crewman’s hold.

“Stiles,” Henry started, his voice soft. “I swear, I didn’t know.”

“Know what?” Stiles asked. “Which side you chose?”

Stiles took a step back, standing with his crew. “Well, now you do.”


	9. IX

_The Alpha_ trailed through the darkness, towing the wreck of the _Nogitsune_ behind it.

Stiles and his crew were shoved into the brig, the small space closed off by aged wrought-iron bars—the black and silver metal tainted with shades of orange, rust brown, green and blue. Barnacles clung to the bars, strips of seaweed caught in the lattice. Two benches ran along either side of the cell.

Stiles helped the injured crewmen sit down, tending to their wounds the best he could.

He rose to his feet, turning to look around the cell. His eyes fell on Kira as she stood alone by the large pillar in the centre of the cell.

He felt his heart ache as he stepped over to her.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles whispered, struggling to find the words. He wanted to tell her that he knew what it feels like to lose a parent, he wanted to tell her that it would be okay, but the words died in his throat.

Kira ignored him.

Stiles’ eyes drifted to her arm, the sleeve of her coat was torn and streaming blood stained the fabric.

“Are you hurt?” Stiles asked, trying to prompt a reaction.

“I’m fine,” Kira replied shortly. “It’s nothing.”

Stiles reached under his robe, untying the sash that was wrapped around his slender waist. He carefully took Kira’s arm, lifting it slightly before using the sash as a bandage and coiling it around her wound.

Stiles tied of off, letting Kira’s arm fall back by her side.

The young woman turned to look at him, her piercing glare as cold as ice as she sneered, “You are not my captain.”

“I never asked to be,” Stiles replied, keeping his voice calm and quiet. “I don’t want to replace your mother—I never will. But for the time being—whether you like it or not—I am your captain. When this is all over, I will happily hand over the reins, but not until I am sure that you are all safe.”

Kira blinked in surprise, holding Stiles’ gaze for a second before turning away.

Stiles stepped away from her, stepping over to the lattice of wrought-iron bars. He leant forward, looking at the faces of the crew members that passed by.

“Cora?” he called out, grabbing at the barnacle-crusted jail bars. “Cora Hale?”

One of the crewmembers turned to look at him—the woman with long dark hair and pale flesh that looked as if it had been slashed by a creature with large talons and then twisted and caught up in fishing wire.

Stiles felt his heart skip a beat as hope filled his chest.

The crewmember burst out in laughter before turning away and continuing on.

“Cora,” a quiet voice rasped from the corner of the cell, weak and confused.

Stiles jumped, turning to look at the wall of the ship that the cell backed up onto. His heart sank as his eyes focused on the figure of a girl that was melded into the side of the ship.

Her once-golden skin was pale and marred with patches of brown and green, slowly blending into the withered wood of the _Alpha_’s hull. Various sea critters clung to her skin, bulbous barnacles bursting through the skin of her temples, cheeks and forehead, some full and others looking like holes burrowed into her skin. Small pipis blossomed in clusters along her brow. Below her right eye, a bon-white starfish moulded into her cheekbone—patches of the starfish’s rough skin still holding its yellow colour, but it was slowly fading away like the rest of her.

Her dark brown eyes were dreary and distant as she looked at Stiles with shock and confusion. “You know my name?”

Stiles nodded.

“Yes,” he said softly, stepping over to her side. “I know your brother. Derek.”

“Derek,” Cora muttered, thinking it over.

Clarity returned to her face as her eyes flew open wide.

“Derek,” she said excitedly. “He made it. He's alive.”

“Derek’s alive,” Stiles confirmed. “And he wants to help you.”

Cora’s expression dimmed, her smile falling from her face. She shook her head.

“He can't help me,” she said quietly. “He won't come.”

“You're his sister,” Stiles said. “Of course he’ll come for you.”

“I know you,” she rasped. “He spoke of you. He can't save me. He can't come because of you.”

“Me?” the young man rasped.

“You're Stiles,” Cora whispered.

Stiles blinked, stunned. He nodded. “Yes, I'm Stiles.”

“If Deucalion is slain, he who slays him must take his place. Captain... forever,” Cora said quietly. “The Alpha must always have a captain. And if he saves me, he loses you.”

Stiles felt his heart sink into his gut.

Cora shook her head, taking a step back towards the wall.

“He won't pick me,” she said quietly, disheartened. “I wouldn't pick me.”

Stiles shook his head, his lips quivering as he struggled to speak—his words dying in his throat.

“Tell him not to come. Tell him to stay away. Tell him it's too late.” She sank back into the wall, melding with the withered wood. “I'm already a part of the ship... part of the crew.”

Her eyes drifted shut, her body still and seemingly lifeless.

Stiles swallowed hard.

“Cora?” he called out.

Her eyes flew open wide, her dark eyes looking at Stiles with shock. “You know my name?”

Stiles nodded.

“Yes,” he repeated softly. “I know your brother. Derek.”

“Derek,” Cora muttered, thinking it over.

Clarity returned to her face as her eyes flew open wide.

“Derek,” she said excitedly. “He made it. He's alive.”

The hope in her voice made Stiles’ heart break, his stomach twisting in knots as hot tears welled in his eyes.

“He’s coming to get me,” Cora told him. “You’ll see. He’s coming…”


	10. X

The barrel bobbed atop the undulating waves, the lifeless body that was tied to it swarmed by screeching gulls as it drifted across the ocean.

Lord Argent stepped forward, watching as his men hauled the barrel aboard.

One soldier grabbed the dirt-smeared bottle that was tied to the corpse’s arm, cutting the frayed, coarse rope that tied it in place and smashing the glass against the side railing of the ship. He pulled a piece of parchment out from the shattered glass and passed it to Lord Argent.

Gerard unfolded the weathered paper, looking down at the familiar East India Trading Company logo that was printed on the paper.

“Sir,” a sailor called from the bow of the deck, pointing out to sea.

Gerard looked up, following the path of the man’s hand to where another body drifted across the water on a barrel.

“A breadcrumb trail,” Argent realised. “And we're meant to follow.”

“A betrayer among them?” his General proposed, thinking it over for a moment. “Or, perhaps, a trap?”

“A gambit by a skilled opponent,” Gerard corrected.

He let out a sigh, folding up the piece of parchment before turning to head back towards his quarters.

“Adjust course, lieutenant,” he called to the soldier behind the wheel. “We can only hope to reach our destination before they run out of bodies.”

The night was abysmally dark—the moon was hidden behind the drifting sheet of clouds.

Derek hauled the barrel onto the railing of the ship, balancing it there before hoisting a copse into place. He coiled the coarse rope around the body, tying it in place.

He sliced through the rope, pausing as he looked down at the knife in his hand—the knife Cora had given him. The aged wooden handle felt heavy as it rested in the palm of his hand.

He let out a measured breath and shoved the barrel off the edge of the ship.

There was a loud splash as the barrel struck the water, sending a spray of foaming water splashing against the side of the ship.

He hoisted another barrel into place, lifting the corpse and tying it to the barrel.

“You escaped the brig quicker than I expected,” Peter said, stepping out of the shadows and making his way towards his nephew’s side.

Derek held out his knife, the blade aimed at the man, but Peter continued to approach, unphased.

“Derek, do you notice anything?”

Derek glanced about.

“You haven't raised an alarm,” he pointed out.

“Odd, isn't it?” Peter said, a smirk lifting the corners of his lips. “Though, not as odd as this.” He gestured to the body on the barrel. “Come up with this all on your lonesome, did you?”

“I said to myself, ‘Think like Peter’.”

“This is what you've arrived at?” Peter asked, almost offended. “Lead Argent to Shipwreck Cove so as to gain his trust and accomplish your own ends? It's like you don't know me at all.”

Peter took a step past Derek, wandering aimlessly across the deck.

“And how does your dearly beloved feel about this plan?” Peter asked.

Derek didn’t answer. His eyes cropped to the knife in his hand, his chest tightening as he thought of the look of betrayal on Stiles’ face when he’d found out about Derek’s deal with Yukimura.

“Ah,” Peter said slowly, knowingly. He turned back to face Derek. “You've not seen fit to trust him with it.”

Derek curled his fingers around the withered wooden handle of the knife in his hand.

“I'm losing him, Peter,” Derek admitted. “Every step I make for my sister is a step away from Stiles.”

“If you choose to lock your heart away, you'll lose him for certain,” Peter pointed out. “If I might lend a machete to your intellectual thicket, avoid the choice altogether. Change the facts. Let someone else dispatch of Deucalion.”

“Who?” Derek asked. “You?”

“Death has a curious way of reshuffling one's priorities,” Peter remarked, stepping over to Derek’s side. “I slip aboard the _Alpha_, find the heart, stab the beating thing, Cora’s free from her debt—you’ve freed your sister—and you're free to be with your love.”

“You're willing to cut out your heart and bind yourself to the _Alpha_… forever?”

“No, I'm _free_ forever,” Peter corrected. “Free to sail the seas beyond the edges of the map. Free from death itself.”

“You have to do the job though, Peter,” Derek pointed out. “You have to ferry souls to the next world.”

Peter said nothing to that comment. He pulled his compass from his belt, holding it out.

Derek frowned in confusion as he hesitantly held a hand out and let Peter drop the compass into his palm.

“What's this for?” Derek asked.

“Think like me,” Peter said. “It'll come to you.”

He slammed his boot into Derek’s gut, knocking him over the railing and into the churning, inky-black depths of water.

There was a loud crash as Derek’s body hit the water, foaming white waves pulling him under for a moment.

Peter waited for him to surface again before shoving a barrel over the railing. It crashed against the water.

Derek grabbed onto the barrel, using it to stay afloat as he glared up at Peter.

Peter leant over the railing, looking down at his nephew and giving him a small wave. “Give my regards to Deucalion.”


	11. XI

Stiles didn’t hear his footsteps; he took no note of the silhouette at the bars, but the clunk of metal grinding against metal caught his attention as the cell door unlocked.

He turned to look at the man standing in the doorway.

“Come with me,” Tate whispered, his eyes full of emotion that Stiles couldn’t unravel.

Stiles didn’t move.

“Quickly,” Henry insisted, keeping his voice low.

Stiles glanced at Kira and nodded, waiting as she led the crew out of the cell first. He was last to leave the cell, waiting in the door.

“What are you doing?” Stiles asked.

“Choosing a side,” Tate answered.

Stiles felt a blossom of hope in his chest as he looked at the man.

“Do not go to Shipwreck Cove,” Tate pleaded. “Argent knows of the meeting of the Brethren. I fear there may be a traitor among them.”

“It's too late to earn my forgiveness,” Stiles told him.

“I had nothing to do with your father's death. But that does not absolve me of my other sins.”

Tate looked over his shoulder at the rest of the crew that gathered in the hallway.

“Follow me,” Tate said, leading the way out of the cold, damp hull of the ship and out to the deck on the stern of the ship where ropes were tied to the railing, towing the _Nogitsune_ in the _Alpha_’s wake.

“Crawl across,” Stiles instructed, helping his crew members up onto the ropes.

Kira stayed behind with Stiles.

“Your turn,” Stiles said, helping her up onto the balcony.

She hoisted herself onto the rope, hooking her legs around the coarse fibres that were entangled with seaweed.

Stiles turned back to Tate.

“Come with us,” he begged.

“Who goes there?” someone shouts from above.

Stiles jumped, looking up at the young girl with long brown hair that looked over the balcony.

“Go. I will follow,” Tate said, pushing Stiles towards the lines.

“You're lying.”

“We each have our destiny,” Tate said. “Go, now.”

Stiles climbed up onto the railing, hooking his legs over the ropes as he began to climb along the rope towards the _Nogitsune_.

He glanced back in time to see Cora step out of the shadows, a cutlass in her hand as she walked towards Tate.

“Back to your station,” Tate said warningly, drawing his sword from its sheath.

Cora’s face was blank, her dark eyes void of emotion as she looked at Stiles.

“No one leaves the ship,” she muttered.

“Stand down. That's an order.”

“Part of the ship, part of the crew,” she recited, her voice twinged with pain.

Tears welled in her eyes as she looked away from Stiles and back at Tate.

“Part of the ship, part of the crew. Part of the ship, part of the crew.” Her eyes lit up, alert and aware. “All hands, prisoner escape!”

“Belay that!” Tate bellowed, drawing his pistol and aiming it at Cora.

_No_, Stiles thought.

“Henry,” Stiles called.

Tate turned, aimed his pistol and fired.

The bullet tore through the ropes. The lines went slack, Stiles and his crew holding on as they crashed into the water.

Cora charged forward, the blade of her cutlass tearing through Tate’s chest.

The man staggered backwards, collapsing against the railing and sliding to the deck. He choked on his own breath, the bitter metallic taste of blood filling his mouth.

Shadows morphed into figures as the other crewmen emerged.

Ennis stepped forward, a delighted smile twisting his face.

“Admiral's dead,” Ennis announced.

Deucalion stepped forward, his stormy grey eyes focused on Tate.

“Henry Tate,” he said slowly, crouching in front of the man. “Do you fear death?”

Tate lunged forward, driving his sword through the captain’s chest.

Deucalion didn’t flinch.

An amused smirk lifted the corner of his mouth as he watched Tate’s body go limp, lifeless.

“I take that as a ‘no’.” Deucalion said nonchalantly.

He pulled the sword from his chest, holding it up in the moonlight and admiring it.

The blade caught the glean of silver moonlight, highlighting the details: folded steel sword with a seam of gold down the engraved groove of the blade. The carved oak hilt with its gold filigree laid into it and leather strapping for grip.

“Nice sword,” Deucalion muttered, sliding it into his belt. 

“To the captain’s cabin!” Ennis shouted.

The crew erupted in cheers as they rushed across the deck towards the captain’s quarters.

Deucalion followed, stepping into the cabin to see soldiers in bright red uniforms pointing their rifles at the wrought iron chest.

The General stood in the centre of them, his eyes fixed on the black key to the chest that hung in front of his face from a cord entangled in his fingers.

“_The Alpha_ is under my command,” he said firmly.

Deucalion sneered at him. “For now.”


	12. XII

“Look alive,” Scott shouted as they neared the island, steering the ship through the sunken ships, jagged rocks and coral boundaries that formed reefs.

The side of the island fell away to smooth grey bluffs, scaling like an impenetrable fortress. Debris and flotsam was caught in the grooves of the grey slate.

“Keep a weather eye out,” Scott warned. “Not for naught, it's called Shipwreck Island—where lies Shipwreck Cove and the town of Shipwreck.”

“Pirates are rather unimaginative when it comes to naming things,” Lydia mused, pulling down the sails and fastening the line.

“I think this time it’s rather fitting,” Isaac said, his eyes focused in front of them as Scott steered the ship through an archway in the stone, into the lagoon that surrounded the bay.

The wreckages of ships and their cargo were stacked upon each other, debris and ruins forming a towering city. Broken masts hung off the sides of the stacks, their ropes tied off and their sails long gone. Lanterns were scattered among the debris.

“Fitting,” Lydia agreed.

Other ships were anchored in the lagoon, drifting atop the crystalline still waters.

The lagoon was surrounded by towering mountains, their sloes covered in lush greenery, a stark contrast to the rotting browns and greys of the wrecks.

On the higher deck, Christ watched as they steered the ship into the cove, talking to Braeden in hushed voices.

“I do not go back on my word once a bargain is struck,” Christopher said quietly, a hint of offence adding an edge to his voice.

“We agreed on ends only,” Braeden argued.

“The means are mine to decide.”

Chris turned away from her.

Braeden grabbed his arm, her eyes darkening like a rolling storm as she glared at him.

“I warn you, Christopher,” she growled, keeping her voice low. “Do not forget it was by my power you returned from the dead. I can just as easily send you back if you fail me.”

Christopher watched as his skin melted away, revealing chalky white bones. He snatched his arm back, looking down to see his weathered, scarred, calloused flesh.

“Don't you forget why you had to bring me back,” Chris said in a low voice. “Why we could not leave Peter to his well-deserved fate.”

He took another step closer.

“It took nine Pirate Lords to bind you, _Calypso_. And it'll take no less than nine to set you free.”

He straightened his back, not breaking his gaze as he called out, “Isaac, Boyd!”

The two made their way up the stairs and over to the captain’s side.

“Take her to the brig,” Chris ordered.

The two took Braeden’s arms, dragging her down below deck.

Chris looked down at his hand, slowly balling his fist and unfurling his fingers.

The doors to Lord Argent’s cabin flew open, slamming back against the walls with a thundering crash.

Deucalion stormed into the cabin.

“I cannot be summoned like some mongrel pup,” he snapped.

“Apparently, you can,” Argent muttered into his cup of tea. He set the cup of tea down and nodded to the man who sat across the table from him. “I believe you two know each other.”

The man had long raven-black hair, pulled back from his face and tied off in a bun, a few stray strands still hanging around his face. He wore a long leather coat, the black leather worn with age.

The man turned, his aventurine green eyes meeting Deucalion’s as a mischievous smirk played across his lips.

Derek.

“Come to join my crew again, Master Hale?” Deucalion asked.

“Not yours,” Derek replied. He nodded to Argent. “His.”

Derek lifted the cup of tea to his lips, pausing for a moment before turning back to Deucalion.

“Peter Hale sends his regards.”

Deucalion flinched, his stormy-grey eyes filled with rage.

Derek turned back to Argent, feigning surprise. “You didn't tell him?”

Derek looked back over his shoulder at Deucalion. “We rescued Peter from the Locker along with the _Eclipse_.”

Deucalion stalked forward, walking around the table to face Argent. “What else have you not told me?”

“There is an issue far more troublesome,” Argent said, ignoring the question. “I believe you're familiar with a person called Calypso.”

Deucalion froze, a hint of recognition passing over his face.

“Not a person,” he answered. “A heathen god. One who delights in cursing men with their wildest dreams and then revealing them to be hollow; nothing but ash. The world is well rid of her.”

“Not quite so well, actually.” Derek said. “The Brethren Court intends to release her.”

“No!” Deucalion bellowed, slamming his hand down on the table. “They cannot! The First Court promised to imprison her forever. That was our agreement.”

“_Your_ agreement?” Argent repeated back to him, his brow raised in surprise as he levelled his gaze on the man.

Deucalion dropped his gaze, shifting nervously.

“I… I showed them how to bind her,” he admitted, flinching. “She could not be trusted... She gave me no choice. We must act before they release her.”

“You loved her,” Derek realised, his eyes drifting the old locket that hung around the man’s neck. “And you betrayed her.”

“She _pretended_ to love me. _She_ betrayed _me_,” Deucalion bellowed.

Derek leant forward on the table, his voice low as he said, “And after which betrayal did you cut out your heart, I wonder.”

“Do not test me!” Deucalion barked. He swept his arm across the table, backhanding Derek’s teacup. It flew across the room, shattering against the wall.

Derek looked at the broken cup, unfazed. “I hadn't finished that.”

Deucalion glared at him.

Derek rose from his seat.

“You will free my sister,” he told Deucalion before looking at Argent, “and you will guarantee Stiles' safety. Along with my own.”

“Your terms are steep, Mr. Hale,” Argent said. “We will expect fair value in return.”

“There is only one price I will accept,” Deucalion interrupted. “Calypso, murdered.”

“Calypso's aboard the _Eclipse_,” Derek told him. “Peter has sailed the _Eclipse_ to Shipwreck Cove.”

“And with you no longer aboard her, how do you propose to lead us there?” Argent asked.

Derek pulled Peter’s compass from his coat pocket, holding it up. A coy smirk turned up the corners of his mouth as he asked, “What is it that you want most?”


	13. XIII

They waited until darkness settled over the cove. The lanterns among the wreck were lit, the golden glow scattered like fireflies in the night.

The anchored ships in the lagoon lit their lanterns, the pirates lowering themselves into row boats and making their way into the city.

“Look at them all.” Allison said, watching them in awe.

“There hasn’t been a gathering like this in our lifetime,” Chris told her.

Peter swallowed hard against the lump in his throat, looking worried. “And I owe them all money.”

Chris rolled his eyes, shoving Peter towards the life boat.

They rowed ashore, making their way up the stairs and pathways that wove their way through the wreckage.

Chris stepped into the large room where the pirates were gathered, drawing his sword and stabbing it into the globe at the front of the room before taking his place at the head of the large table around which six other captains were seated.

To their left, a young man sat back in his seat, his face composed and his blue-grey eyes like a pool of icy water, clear and focused. His light brown hair long and brushed aside from his eyes. He wore a black shirt over his broad shoulders, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing his firm, scarred forearms, and the top buttons undone.

Theo Raeken.

Next to him was a young man. He had short, sandy-blond hair – spiked up at the front. He had a lean face but a firm jaw, his piercing blue eyes surveying his surroundings. A grey shirt hugged the cures of his firm body.

Brett Talbot.

Beside him was Marin Morrell—a stunning woman with dark skin and long, straight hair that cascaded over her shoulders. She wore a faded coal-grey shirt with belts strapped across her chest, her jacket tossed over the back of her chair.

Beside her was another woman with pale skin and long brown hair that was pulled back in a braid. She leant back in her chair, her boots resting on the edge of the table as her cold glare honed in on Peter.

“Is that—?” Allison started.

“Corrine,” Peter finished. “Captain of the _Desert Wolf_.”

“Peter’s ex-lover,” Lydia added.

Finally, to their right, was Araya Calavera, a middle-aged woman with worn but stern features. She had short umber hair that sat around her weary face. She wore a coat that was decorated with a fine pattern, the silver thread and beading shimmering in the dull glow of the lanterns that lit the room.

All eyes turned to Peter as he lingered in the corner of the room.

“I hope you’re comfortable saying whatever it is that you’re feeling, straight to my face,” Peter said, flashing a charming smile.

“We don’t like you,” Marin answered bluntly.

Peter shrugged slightly. “Fair enough.”

Chris rolled his eyes. The room fell silent as he stepped forward to the edge of the table.

“As he who issued summons,” Chris began. “I convene this, the Fourth Brethren Court. To confirm your lordship and right to be heard, present now your pieces of eight, my fellow captains.”

He turned and nodded to Erica.

She picked up the bowl that sat on the table, slowly walking around as everyone around the table pulled out random trinkets—a necklace with a shark tooth tied onto it, a jade pendant, a leather bracelet with a silver chain braided into it, a creased and worn playing card—and placed it into the bowl.

“Those aren't pieces of eight,” Isaac said under his breath. “They're just pieces of junk.”

“The original plan was to use nine pieces of eight to bind Calypso,” Scott explained. “But when the First Court met, the Brethren didn’t have a sovereign between them.”

“So change the name,” Isaac said.

“To what, ‘Nine pieces of whatever we happened to have in our pockets at the time’?” Scott scoffed. “That sounds very piratey.”

Erica carried the bowl back around to Chris. He pulled the silver chain of a necklace from around his neck, looking at the pendant of the rampant lion for a second before dropping it into the bowl.

“Hale,” he called over his shoulder.

Peter looked up from whatever it was that had caught his attention in the corner of the room. He stepped forward, his fingers fidgeting with something around his wrist for a moment.

His sleeve shifted, revealing the braided leather bracelet around his wrist, a silver pendant engraved with a triskelion woven into the band.

Peter froze.

“Might I point out that we are still short one pirate lord,” he said, nodding towards the empty chair. “And I'm content to wait until Yukimura joins us.”

“Yukimura’s dead,” Stiles’ voice rang out through the darkness as he steps forward, driving his sword into the globe at the front of the room. “She fell to the _Alpha_.”

“And made you captain?” Peter said, shocked. “They're giving the bloody title away now.”

Panicked voices rang out through the room.

“Listen to me!” Stiles shouted, silencing the room. “Our location has been betrayed. Deucalion is under the command of Lord Argent and they're on their way here.”

“Who is this betrayer?” Marin asked, wary.

“Not likely anyone among us,” Chris said soothingly.

Stiles’ dark eyes darted around the room.

“Where's Derek?” he asked quietly.

“Not among us,” Peter replied.

“It matters not how they found us. The question is, what will we do now that they have?” Chris said, regaining control of the situation.

“We fight,” Stiles proposed.

“Shipwreck Cove is a fortress,” Araya pointed out. “A well-supplied fortress. There is no need to fight if they cannot get to us.” 

“There is a third course,” Chris announced. “In another age, at this very spot, the First Brethren Court captured the sea goddess and bound her in her bones. That was a mistake.”

The Pirate Lords looked at him in shock.

“We tamed the seas for ourselves, aye, but opened the door to Argent and his ilk,” Chris continued. “Better were the days when mastery of seas came not from bargains struck with eldritch creatures, but from the sweat of a man's brow and the strength of his back alone. You all know this to be true. Gentlemen, ladies… We must free Calypso.”

The room erupted into chaos, voices deafening as the pirates began to argue.

All the while, Corrine sits at the end of the table in silence, her glare focused on Peter.

“Noshiko would've agreed with Argent,” Brett shouted.

“Calypso was our enemy then, she will be our enemy now,” Calavera argued.

“This is madness,” Stiles muttered.

“This is politics,” Peter corrected.

“Meanwhile, our enemies are bearing down upon us,” Stiles said, impatience adding an edge to his voice.

“If they’re not here already,” Chris added.

Braeden sat on the wooden bench in the brig, her back against the dampened wood of the ship’s hull. She held her onto her locket, cradling it gently in the palms of her hands. The lid was open, the turning drum of the music box playing the familiar melody.

She felt warm tears well in her eyes as she closed the locket, the click silencing the music box, but the melody did not stop.

She bolted upright, her eyes searching the shadows of the ships. She rose to her feet, walking over to the bars as she watched a figure emerge from the shadows.

His cloudy grey eyes met hers. He was untouched by the sea, nor time. His face was worn with creases and his light brown hair thinning, sleeked back from his face.

Deucalion. 

“My sweet,” she says softly. “You came for me.”

“You were expecting me,” Deucalion replied.

“It has been torture. Trapped in this single form, cut off from the sea, from all that I love… From you.”

“I never asked for this,” Deucalion said quietly. “I knew the risk I was taking when I jumped into the swell that day. I didn’t know that the boy I was saving would grow up to be such a pain in my hide, but I wasn’t going to stand by and let the child die. I knew what I was risking; my life for his. And I was at peace with that. But you couldn’t let me die, could you?”

Braeden held his gaze for a moment, her dark eyes full of pain.

“Ten years I devoted to the duty you charged to me,” Deucalion started slowly. “Ten years I looked after the souls of those who died at sea. And, finally, when the time came that we could be together again... you weren't there.”

Braeden bowed her head.

Glistening tears welled in Deucalion’s eyes, his composure fractured as an expression of pain settled on his face. “Why weren't you there?”

“It's my nature,” she replied meekly. “Would you love me if I was anything but what I am?”

“I do not love you,” Deucalion growled, anger flooding his voice.

“Many things you were, Deucalion, but you were never cruel,” Braeden said. “You have corrupted your purpose and so yourself. You thought hiding it away would save you, but if only left you lost.”

She reached out through the bars, her fingers touching his chest where his heart should have been.

Deucalion let in a sharp gasp as her power flowed through him, his cloudy irises darkening to brown. He blinked a few times as if he was unsure of what he was seeing.

“Calypso,” he whispered, reaching through the bars and gently stroking her cheek.

Braeden smiled in relief, a tear falling from her eye.

Deucalion tenderly brushed it aside.

“I will be free,” she said softly. “And when I am, I will give you my heart. We can be together always…”

She drew her hand back.

His eyes faded, the grey mist consuming his irises and leaving him blind.

Another tear fell down her cheek as she added, “If only you had a heart to give.”

He lashed out, grabbing her by the throat.

Searing pain flooded her body, sparks of colour and light flooding her vision as she choked on her breath.

His face was contorted by rage.

“Why did you come?” she asked, her voice breaking slightly as she struggled to breathe.

“What fate have you planned for your captors?” Deucalion asked, pulling his hand back slowly.

“The Brethren Court?” A wicked smile turned up the corner of her mouth, a raging storm dwelling in her dark eyes. “The last thing they will learn in this life is how cruel I can be.”

Deucalion nodded, seemingly content.

He turned to leave.

“And what of your fate, Deucalion?” she called after him.

He paused, not turning to look at her.

His voice was quiet as he answered, “My heart will always belong to you.”

Chris rolled his eyes. He drew his pistol from his belt, holding it up in the air and firing—silencing the Court.

He waited for them all to take their seats again before continuing, “It was the First Court what imprisoned Calypso. We should be the ones to set her free. And in her gratitude, she will see fit to grant us boons.”

Peter scoffed,

Chris turned to him, narrowing his glare on the man. “If you have a better alternative, please, share.”

“Cuttlefish,” Peter answered as if it would all make sense. “Pen them up together, they'll devour each other without a second thought. Much the same for human nature, isn't it?”

He began to walk around the table.

“Yes, we could hole up here, well-provisioned and well-armed, but half of us would be dead within the month.”

“You’d be dead in minutes,” Brett said.

“Seconds,” Marin corrected.

“Even more of the reason I’m opposed to that option,” Peter replied. “Or, as my learned colleague so naively suggests, we can release Calypso, and we can pray that she will be merciful… I rather doubt it.”

He continued to stroll around the table.

“Hell hath no fury like a woman’s scorn—as some can attest to,” he said, annunciating his words as he looked at Corrine. He turned away from her and continued, “Can we honestly say that Calypso will be any different? No?” We cannot.”

He stopped walking, standing at the head of the table opposed to Chris.

“_Res ipsa loquitur, tabula in naufragio_. We are left with one option. I agree with – and I cannot believe the words are coming out of my mouth – Captain Stilinski,” he said bitterly, agonising over the words. “We must fight.”

“As per the code, an act of war—and this be exactly that—can only be declared by the Pirate King.” Argent contended.

“You made that up,” Peter objected.

“Did I, now?” Chris said, raising his brow. “I call upon Captain Finstock, keeper of the Code.”

Peter froze, his eyes widening as a look of shock and fear passed over his face.

Stiles looked at Scott, his brow furrowed in confusion.

Scott leant in close.

“Peter and his sister were orphans – Finstock took them in, raised them for the most part until Talia was old enough to look after them both,” he explained.

Heavy footsteps thumped against the wooden planks behind Peter. He went rigid, his face growing pale as the thundering echo of each step tore through him.

“You're in my way, boy,” a low voice growled.

Peter swallowed hard and stepped aside, dropping his gaze—unable to look at the man.

Finstock dropped a heavy book onto the table, the heavy _thump_ echoing throughout the room. He unlocked the metal latches that held the pages shut, prying the cover open. He thumbed his way through the smooth edges of the worn pages, dragging his fingers down the weathered pages of black ink until he found what he was looking for.

“Argent’s right.”

“There has not been a King since the First Court, and that's not likely to change,” Calavera pointed out.

“Why not?” Stiles asked.

“The Pirate King is elected by popular vote,” Chris explained. “And each pirate only ever votes for themself.”

“I call for a vote,” Peter said.

Chris let out a disgruntled sigh.

“Very well,” Finstock said, turning to Captain Raeken.

“Theo Raeken,” he voted.

“Talbot,” Brett said.

“Marin Morrell.”

“Corrine.”

“Araya Calavera.”

Stiles shrugged. “Stiles Stilinski.”

“Christopher Argent,” Chris voted.

“Stiles Stilinski.”

All eyes turned to Peter.

“What?” Stiles said, shocked.

“I know. Curious, isn't it?” Peter replied, smirking.

“Very well,” Araya said, rising from her seat. “What say you, Captain Stilinski, King of the Brethren Court?”

All eyes turned to Stiles.

He drew in a measured breath.

“Prepare every vessel that floats,” he ordered. “At dawn, we go to war.”


	14. XIV

Silence fell over the ships, the only sound was the undulating waves lapping at the hulls of the ships and the crack of fabric as the sails were shaken by the breeze.

Stiles stood on the bow of the _Lunar Eclipse_, his eyes set on the thick grey fog that hung heavy in the air in front of them.

The _Nogitsune_ sailed alongside them with Kira in charge of the ship. She looked from the mist to where Stiles stood, waiting.

The sheet of grey began to waver, a silhouette emerging from the distant mist.

“The enemy is here!” Isaac shouted from the crow’s nest, his voice ringing out through the air. “Let’s take them!”

The pirates burst into an uproar, raising their swords.

Peter kept his eyes on Stiles; the young man unfazed by the shouts around them.

The cries of the pirates began to die out as more ships emerged from the fog; hundreds of ships with white sails—an armada.

Everyone fell silent.

Chris stepped down from the higher deck, crossing over to Stiles’ side. He looked at the young man’s face, shocked at how composed—how emotionless—Stiles’ expression was.

“What now?” Chris asked.

“Ready a life boat,” Stiles instructed.

The thin strip of white sand formed an island, surrounded by the dark waters of the ocean and coloured by sparse grass and a few trees that cast shade across the land.

The life boat had been pulled ashore, their footsteps trailing from one side of the small island to the other, where Gerard stood, Derek to one side and Deucalion to the other—a trail of old wooden buckets filled with sea water showing where he had been, still unable to step ashore.

Peter, Stiles and Chris slowed as they approached the others.

“So you are the one that led these wolves to our door,” Chris growled, narrowing his pale glare on Derek.

“Don't blame Derek. He was merely the tool of your betrayal,” Gerard interjected. “If you wish to see its grand architect, look to your left.”

Chris and Stiles turned their head, unsurprised as their gazes fell upon Peter.

Peter held up his hands. “My hands are clean in this.”

“My actions were my own and to my own purpose,” Derek said. “Peter had nothing to do with it.”

“Derek, I've been aboard the Alpha,” Stiles started slowly, his voice quiet and soft. Derek blinked in surprise. “I understand the burden you bear, but I fear that cause is lost.”

“No cause is lost if there is but one fool left to fight for it,” Derek said.

“If Peter is innocent, then how did he come to give me this?” Gerard held up the battered leather compass. “You made a deal with me, Peter, to deliver the pirates, and here they are. Don't be bashful. Step up and claim your reward.”

“Your debt to me is still to be satisfied,” Deucalion interrupted. “One hundred years servitude aboard the _Alpha_… as a start.”

“That debt was paid,” Peter argued. He gestured towards Derek. “With some help.”

“I propose an exchange,” Stiles said, his calm voice cutting though the others. “Derek leaves with us and you can take Peter.”

“Done,” Gerard agreed.

Chris grabbed Stiles’ arm, turning the young man to face him.

“Peter's one of the nine Pirate Lords,” Chris muttered under his breath. “You have no right.”

“King,” Stiles reminded him, silencing Chris.

They turned back to Peter.

Peter let out a measured sigh and bowed his head.

Chris took a step forward, drawing his sword. With a swift movement, the blade sliced across Peter’s wrist, cutting the woven leather band of the bracelet—his piece of eight. It fell to the sand.

Peter glared at Chris but said nothing.

“If you have something to say, I might say something as well,” Chris said, his voice low as he met Peter’s glare.

Peter crouched down, picking the bracelet up from the sand and dusting it off. He tossed it to Chris, a devilish smirk playing across his lips. “First to the finish line, then?”

Peter took a step back before turning and walking over to Gerard and Deucalion stood.

Deucalion leant in close and whispered, “Do you fear death?”

Peter let out a measured breath. “You have no idea.”

Gerard levelled his composed gaze with Stiles’. “Advise your Brethren, you can fight, and all of you will die. Or you can not fight, in which case only most of you will die.”

Stiles stood his ground, his face emotionless. “You murdered my father.”

“He chose his own fate,” Argent argued.

“And you have chosen yours,” Stiles said with finality. “We will fight. And you will die.”

Gerard nodded. “So be it.”

Stiles turned and walked back to their ship, Derek and Chris following after him.

“King?” Derek asked quietly.

“Of the Brethren Court,” Stiles explained. “Courtesy of Peter.”

Derek glanced over his shoulder at where the man stood, watching them walk away. “Maybe he really does know what he's doing.”


	15. XV

“We'll need to use the _Eclipse_ as a flagship to lead the attack,” Stiles said as he stepped out onto the deck.

“Oh, will we now?” Chris said, ignoring him.

Stiles’ brow furrowed in confusion as he watched Christ step into the centre of the gathered crew. His eyes drifted to the stairwell as Boyd and Scott pulled Braeden up from the deck below, her slender body bound in ropes.

“Chris, you can't release her,” Derek argued.

“We need to give Peter a chance,” Stiles agreed.

“Apologies, Your Majesty,” Chris said, a hint of bitterness and condescension in his voice as he turned to face Stiles. “Too long, my fate has not been in my own hands. No longer.”

Chris reached out and grabbed Yukimura’s necklace from around Stiles neck, breaking the chain as he tore it away from the young man’s neck.

Derek lunged forward, but a few members of the crew grabbed, him holding him back.

Stiles didn’t flinch, he met Chris’ cold gaze with a fierce glare.

Chris turned his back to them, dropping the necklace and Peter’s bracelet into the bowl with the other pieces of eight.

“Is there some manner of rite or incantation?” Scott asked.

Chris nodded.

“The items brought together, done. Items to be burned—” Scott unscrewed the cap of his flask and poured liquor into the bowl as Chris reached out, taking the smoking ignition stick that Isaac held out to him. “—and someone must speak the words: ‘Calypso, I release you from your human bonds’ as if to a lover.”

A collective ‘_Ooo_’ echoed across the deck. Lydia rolled her eyes.

“Calypso,” Chris bellowed to the heavens. “I release you from your human bonds!”

Lydia snorted as she tried to hold back her laughter.

Erica leant over to Allison. “I feel sorry for your mother if that’s how he speaks to his lover.”

Chris lowered the ignition stick into the bowl, but nothing happened.

“Is that it?” Scott asked.

“He didn't say it right,” Isaac chimed in.

All eyes turned on him.

He swallowed hard, squirming under Chris’ glare as he repeated, “You have to say it right.”

Isaac took a step forward, standing off to Braeden’s side. He carefully reached forward, gently brushing back a strand of her hair. He leant in close, his voice soft as he whispered, “Calypso... I release you from your human bonds.”

Braeden drew in breath, her eye fluttering shut.

There was a rush of air as the pieces of eight were consumed by a raging purple flame. The fire died out quickly, wisps of smoke swirling before her face.

Braeden inhaled deeply, drawing the swirling wisps of smoke into her lungs.

“Braeden,” Derek called, straining against the men who held him back. He lowered his voice, speaking quietly as he hesitantly said, “Calypso.”

Her eyes flew open, her dark irises now pearly white. The bowl dropped at her feet, scattering cindering ashes across the deck.

“When the Brethren Court imprisoned you, who was it that told them how?”

She trembled, rage building inside of her.

She said nothing—a glint of uncertainty and confusion in her eye.

“Who was it that betrayed you?” Derek asked.

“Name him,” she demanded.

“Deucalion.”

There was thundering crack overhead as storm clouds rolled in.

Her body grew, the ropes pulling taut around her body as she thrashed about. They slipped through the grasps of those who held them, tearing the flesh of their palms and leaving them with rope burns as they slipped through the men’s grasps, snapping or breaking like the hooks, masts and pieces of ship they were tied to.

Her ragged clothes tore as they struggled to morph with her figure. The aged brass of her necklace stood out against the fabric.

Her pearl-white eyes were full of rage as she glared down at those below her.

Derek pulled himself free from those holding him, instinctively stepping in front of Stiles—putting himself between the young man and the goddess who towered over them.

“Calypso!” Chris called out, bowing before her.

The others did the same, dropping to their knees or bowing their heads respectfully.

“I come before you as but a servant, humble and contrite,” Chris said. “I have fulfilled my vow and now ask your favour. Spare myself, my ship, my crew, but unleash your fury upon those who dare pretend to be your masters or mine.”

She opened her mouth, letting out a heart-breaking, pained scream as her body shattered, dissolving into rolling waves of stone-white crabs that scattered across the deck and disappeared into the sea.

They all stood in silence, stunned.

“What now?” Isaac asked.

“Nothing,” Chris answered. “Our final hope has failed us.”

A gust of wind blew through them, tearing Chris’ hat of his head.

Stiles watched as it blew up the mainsail, dancing across the wind. The hoists rattled and the wood creaked, the sounds echoing in his mind. The breeze brought with it the ring of distant voices: singing.

_Heave ho, thieves and beggars  
Never shall we die._

“It's not over,” Stiles said defiantly.

“We have an armada against us,” Lydia pointed out. “And with the _Alpha_ on their side, there's no chance.”

“There's only a fool's chance,” Scott contended.

Chris stepped forward, setting his hand on Stiles’ shoulder.

“Revenge won't bring your father back, Master Stilinski,” he said softly. “And it's not something I intend to die for.”

“You're right,” Stiles said quietly. “Then what shall we die for?”

Chris blinked in surprise, taken aback.

Stiles shoved past him, storming across the deck as he shouted to his men and the surrounding ships. “You will listen to me. The Brethren will still be looking here to us, to the _Lunar Eclipse_, to lead. And what will they see? Frightened bilge rats aboard a derelict ship? No, they will see free men and freedom! The enemy will see is the flash of our cannons; they will hear the ring of our swords, and they will know what we can do.”

Stiles met Chris’ gaze.

“By the sweat of our brows, and the strength of our backs, and the courage of our hearts,” he recited.

A small smile lifted the corners of Chris’s lips.

Stiles lifted his chin—defiant and proud.

“Gentlemen,” he said, his voice quiet but sure. “Hoist the colours.”

His words carried through the air as one by one, the crew of the _Eclipse_ repeated the order, the echo of their voices carrying to the rest of the Brethren Court as the captains of each ship shouted to their crew, “Hoist the colours!”

“The wind's on our side, boys,” Chris said, looking at Stiles with pride. “That's all we need.”

Across the waters, Argent stood on the deck of his ship, a smug grin on his face.

“We have a favourable wind, sir,” a soldier told him.

“So we do,” Argent muttered, glancing up at the rustling fabric of their sails.

He set his eyes on the _Eclipse_.

“Signal Deucalion to give no quarter,” Argent instructed. “That should brighten his day.”

“Deucalion,” the General’s voice rang out through the mist. “We give no quarter!”

The crew hollered in celebrate, but Deucalion seemed distracted. He turned his eyes to the sky, looking blindly at the swirling grey clouds, the rolling thunder and the flash of lightning.

“Calypso,” he whispered.

Rain fell from the darkened sky, glistening droplets crashing against his skin. He let his eyes fall shut as the icy-cold water fell against his face, caressing his cheek like the ghost of a memory.

His relief dissolved into rage, a storm filling his eyes as he opened them, looking towards the _Eclipse_.

The ships lurched forward as they sail forward, the churning ocean thrashing at the hulls.

“Man the capstan,” Scott ordered as he rushed across the deck. “Raise the main topyard. Keep the gun powder dry.”

He paused, looking over the edge of the ship at the churning water.

Stiles and Derek seemed to notice it too, watching as the murky water began to spiral, a whirlpool forming.

“Maelstrom!” Scott shouted.

Stiles turned. “Captain Argent! We need you at the helm.”

A coy smirk lifted the corners of Chris’s lips. “Aye, that be true.”

He pulled himself onto the higher deck, stepping over to the wheel as he began to shout orders. “Brace up yards.” His voice died away, his composure steady and his eyes focused ahead. “Dying is the day worth living for.”

“Veer off!” the General ordered, racing up the stairs that lead to the _Alpha_’s helm.

“She'll not harm us,” Deucalion said confidently. “Full-bore and into the abyss. Ready the bow cannons—fire when they’re in range.”

“Are you mad?” the man shouted.

Deucalion turned his misted grey eyes on the man, sneering. “You afraid to get wet?”

“She's on our stern and gaining,” Derek called out, his eyes focused on the Alpha as the ship trailed after them.

“More speed!” Chris ordered. 

A thundering boom split the air, louder that the rumbling thunder as a cannonball tore through the railing, splintering the wood and narrowly missing them.

Derek rushed over to the helm. “Take us out or they'll overbear us.”

“Nay. Further in,” Chris said. “We'll cut across to faster waters.”

Stiles turned to the crew.

“Prepare to broadside,” he shouted, jumping down the stairs and rushing across the deck.

Derek followed after him, dropping down on the deck and running to help.

“Muster your courage, men,” he shouted over the raging storm. “At the ready.”

Peter stood in the centre of the cell, swaying with the ship. The rancid smell of rotting wood and detritus assaulted his senses, the sound of trickling water driving him mad.

He needed to think, needed to find a way out of the cell.

“Think,” he scolded himself as he slumps against the aged iron bars.

A thought – a memory struck him.

He braced his hands against the bars, looking at the woven lattice of metal and the rusting hinges of the cell door.

“Half-barrel hinges,” he said, a smirk lighting his face. “Leverage.”

He took a step back, turning to pick up the bench in the cell.

He froze, his eyes falling upon the figure that had melded into the wall.

Her once-golden skin was deathly pale, the shadows making her blend in with the warped wood of the ship’s hull. Various sea critters clung to her skin, bulbous barnacles bursting through the skin of her temples, cheeks and forehead, some full and others looking like holes burrowed into her skin. Small pipis blossomed in clusters along her brow. Below her right eye, the vibrant yellow starfish that moulded into her cheekbone was fading—it’s flesh now chalky like dying coral.

“Cora,” Peter whispered, his voice breaking as it caught in his throat.

She struggled to open her eyes, her dark irises unfocused. She slowly turned her head to face him, the wood of the hull creaking as she broke away from it.

“Peter,” she rasped.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Peter said softly. He took a step closer to the bars, trying to get a better look at her. “Are you alright?”

“Everything’s foggy,” she admitted. “I don’t… I don’t know who I am anymore…” Her eyes darkened as if something else took over her mind. Her voice was weak as she recited, “Part of the ship, part of the crew.”

“Stay with me, Cora,” Peter encouraged.

“Peter,” she said weakly. “I’m scared.”

“It’s going to be okay,” Peter promised. “I’m going to put an end to this. I’m going to free you.”

“It’s too late,” she replied. “I’m already lost to the _Alpha_. Part of the ship, part of the crew.”

“No,” Peter said, pleadingly. “Cora, stay with me.”

“Part of the ship, part of the crew,” she recited, her voice growing week as her body melded into the hull of the ship. “Part of the ship, part of the crew.”

Her eyes fell shut.

“Shit,” Peter hissed.

He grabbed the wooden bench, hauling it over to the cell door. He upturned it, wedging the stands in the lattice of the wrought-iron bars. He pushed down on the bench, the cell door shrieking and groaning as it lifted off its hinges, crashing to the floor.

Peter stepped over the door, his face set with steely determination.

“Time to put an end to his,” Peter said, making his way out of the brig.


	16. XVI

The ship spun with the churning tide, veering as the waters pulled them in.

“Batten down the hatches! Stand to your guns,” Scott shouted as he made his way below deck. He stood on the stairs, positioned between decks as he relayed instructions. “Midship cannoneers, sight the masts. Hold there! Wait till we're board-and-board.”

Derek readied the men at the cannons on deck.

Chris spun the wheel, his piercing blue eyes watching at their ships lined up. “Fire!”

“Fire!” Stiles shouted, his voice carrying through the storm.

“Fire!” Scott and Derek echoed.

The sound of cannon fire rang through the air.

_The Alpha_ fired back.

Iron cannonballs tore through the side of the ship, splintering the wood.

Splinters rained around them, cutting through skin as the cannonballs destroyed cannons and tore holes through the ship.

“Chris?” Stiles called out.

“It’s too late to alter course now,” Chris said, giving the wheel one last spin before letting go and letting the current pull the ship into the maelstrom.

Peter made his way through the ship, walking – unhindered – through the shadows of the hull. The thundering echo of cannon fire and shouting voice rang through the air.

He paused, watching as a cannonball tore through the hull of the ship, sending splinters of rotting wood and shredded kelp flying.

Peter walked on, unhindered, his eyes focused on what was in front of him.

He made his way up to the captain’s cabin.

Two guards were stationed to guard the chest, small hand cannons aimed at the black chest and lighting sticks in their hands. They were young and their faces were familiar—the guards from Beacon Hills, from the day he met Stiles.

“Halt there or we'll shoot,” Liam and Mason warn, turning the hand cannons to face Peter.

“Good one,” Peter said, flashing a charming smile, but he turned away from them, stepping over to the table where his pistol, belt and sheathed sword sat. “I just come to get me effects.”

He strapped the belt around his waist and slid his pistol into the waistline of his pants before turning to leave.

He paused, turning back to the young guards.

“Admirable though it may be, why are you here when you could be elsewhere?” he asked.

“Someone has to stay and guard the chest,” Mason answered.

“But why does it have to be us?” Liam asked, turning to look at Mason.

“It had to be someone trustworthy,” Mason replied. “I mean, they needed people they could trust not to steal the chest, that’s why we’re here.”

“Or is it because they think we’re not good enough to be fighting the real fight?”

Peter slowly crept forward, lifting the black iron chest off the pedestal as the two continued to talk. He made his way out of the room, unnoticed.

He blinked against the heavy rain that crashed over the deck.

“Prepare to board!” the General ordered, his deep voice ringing out across the ship.

Peter across to where the man stood, Deucalion at his side.

Deucalion flinched.

“Cover!” the captain bellowed, turning and using his body as a shield the General as a cannonball blasted the side of the deck.

Peter staggered backwards, turning away as the deafening crash of shattering wood and broken bones filled the aid. The bitter stench of metallic blood and salty sea spray filled his nostrils. He slowly opened his eyes, looking back as the soldiers.

Their bodies were twisted, jagged pieces of wood impaling them. Blood was smeared across their bodies, staining their vibrant uniforms. Their screams of pain and broken breaths were drowned out by the raging storm.

His eyes drifted bat to Deucalion, watching as he man straightened, looking from the impaled soldiers to the General.

Deucalion’s eyes lit up with an unnatural crimson glow as he drew his sword and ran the man through. He grabbed the key from around the man’s neck, letting the cord snap as he pulled his sword back and let the man’s body fall to the ground.

The captain turned, stalking down the deck.

His glowing eyes fell on Peter, a wicked smile lifting the corners of his lips. He turned and stalked towards the man, calling out to his crew, “Lookee what we have here, boys; a lost bird. A lost bird that never learned to fly.”

“To my great regret,” Peter said, flashing a charming smile. He drew his sword and glanced around. “But...” He tightened his grip on the chest and grabbed a byline, wrapping it around his wrist. “Never too late to learn, eh?”

He swung the sword, slicing through the rope. The line pulled him upwards, hauling him through the air and onto the mast.

He landed on the beam, taking a second to steady himself. He turned, walking towards the main pole of the mast.

The shadows around the wood began to warp, morphing into the silhouette of a man as Deucalion stepped forward.

“The chest,” Deucalion growled. “Hand it over.”

“I can set you free,” Peter bargained.

Deucalion’s’ scowl didn’t waver. “My freedom was forfeited long ago.”

Steel crashed against steel, guns fired and men let out battle cries.

The metals of their sword rang and gunfire and cannons thundered as they split the air.

The night was filled with dying screams and silenced gurgles as the pirates drove their cutlasses through the sailors or fired lead into their bodies. Their lifeless corpses hit the deck as the crisp salty air was filled with the bitter scent of blood and gunpowder.

“Stiles!” Derek cried out.

Stiles turned in time to see Jennifer—the woman with long dark hair and pale flesh that looked as if it had been sliced by twisted fishing wire.

He raised his sword, blocking the woman’s strike.

Derek ran across the deck, driving his sword through the woman’s chest.

The woman cried out, staggering backwards.

Derek pulled his sword free.

Stiles knocked Jennifer’s sword aside, slamming the heel of his boot into her chest and knocking her over the edge of the ship and into the churning waters.

“Stiles,” Derek said over the raging storm. “Will you marry me?”

Stiles looked at him, stunned.

“I don't think now's the best time,” Stiles replied.

Another man came charging at them.

They both turned, holding up their swords and blocking the man’s attack.

“Now may be the only time,” Derek pointed out.

They shoved the man back and impaled him, their blades cutting through his flesh.

“I love you,” Derek said, his voice softening.

Stiles felt his heart flutter, a small smile turning up the corner of his lips.

Another soldier charged at them.

Stiles swung his sword back, blocking the attack of the soldier. He spun into the man’s hold, grabbing his wrist and hauling him over his shoulder, slamming him against the deck and driving his sword through him.

Derek turned to see Kali charge at Stiles.

She raised her sword above her head, bringing it down on Stiles.

Derek blocked her attack, shoving her backwards.

Stiles straightened, his face close to Derek’s.

“I've made my choice,” Derek said, his voice quiet, but Stiles could still hear it over the falling rain. “What's yours?”

“Argent!” Stiles shouted.

Derek’s brow furrowed as he frowned in confusion.

“Marry us,” Stiles said.

“I'm a little busy at the moment,” Chris replied, fighting off one of Deucalion’s men.

Stiles and Derek turned to see Kali charging towards them.

They blocked her attacks, the clash of their swords ringing out through the air.

“Chris, now,” Stiles ordered.

“Fine,” Chris shouted, running a man through with his sword. “Dearly beloved, we be gathered here today...”

He stopped, cursing under his breath as he blocked an attack, swinging his sword and gutting the man.

“Short version—” he told them, turning to fight off another soldier.

“Stiles Stilinski, do you take me to be your husband?” Derek asked.

“I do,” Stiles answered.

Derek’s face lit up with a smile of relief, almost as if, for a second, he thought Stiles would say no.

“Derek Hale, do you take me...” He turned, blocking a sword and ducking as Kali threw another attack at him. “...to be your husband...” he slammed the flat side of his blade against her wrist, knocking the word from her hand before driving the blade into her stomach. “...in sickness and in health...” He pulled the sword back and dove to the side, narrowly missing another man that charged at them. “...with health being the less likely?”

“I do,” Derek answered.

A man grabbed Derek from behind, pulling him back and off balance. Derek dug his feet into the decking, grabbing the man’s arms and hauling him over his head. The man’s body hit the deck with a loud _twack_. Derek pinned him there, balling his fist and slamming his knuckles into the man’s jaw with a sickening crack.

He scrambled for his sword, grabbing it and fighting off another soldier in a bright red uniform.

Chris’s voice rang out through the air. “As captain, I now pronounce you...”

He leapt up onto the railing to fight off the lashing swords, kicking a man in the face.

“You may kiss,” he tried again, only to be interrupted by a man that charged at him.

Chris drew his pistol from his belt, cocking it and firing.

“You may kiss...”

Derek caught Stiles’ hand, pulling him in close.

His pale aventurine eyes glimmered in the dull light as he looked at Stiles lovingly.

Stiles’ eyes widened. He pulled Derek behind him, parrying an attack before countering. He grabbed the man's wrist and ducked under his arm, pulling the pirate’s arm behind his back. He slammed his elbow into the pirate's back, releasing his hold on the man and letting him fall overboard.

“You may kiss...” Chris tried again, turning to fight a man.

Stiles blocked another attack and Derek ran the man through.

Chris let out an exasperated sigh. “Just kiss.”

Derek pulled Stiles close, his free hand settling on the young man’s waist.

Stiles grabbed the man by the front of his shirt, pulling him close and bringing their lips together.

The kiss was passionate, but seemed to weaken, growing more gentle and tender as Derek cupped Stiles’ cheek in his hand.

Stiles’ hand in Derek’s shirt weakened, sliding up his chest and up to Derek’s neck. He laced his through Derek’s soft hair.

Derek tilted his head and deepened the kiss, pulling Stiles in closer.

Stiles drew back, enough for them to draw breath, resting his forehead against Derek’s as the rain fell down around them.

Metal crashed against metal as Peter and Deucalion duelled, matched for skill, speed and precision as they fought atop the mast. Sparks flew about as their steel swords rang.

Deucalion blocked Peter’s blow, leaning in close.

“You can do nothing without the key,” he sneered.

“I already have the key,” Peter lied.

Deucalion’s brow furrowed in confusion.

“No, you don't,” he replied, holding up the battered iron key.

“Oh, that key.”

Peter shoved him back, knocking his sword from his hand and slicing the key free of his grasp. He swung again but Deucalion ducked, the blade wedging itself in the mast.

Peter tugged at it, but couldn’t pull it free.

Deucalion straightened, his glowing eyes fixed on Peter.

Peter swallowed hard.

“You took everything from me,” Deucalion growled.

“You took my sister,” Peter argued, feeling the rage boil in his blood. “You left her husband’s soul cast away at sea because you neglected your duties. You took my nieces—_my family_. What did I ever take from you?”

“You took my life!” Deucalion bellowed. “I drowned saving you when you were a child! And, in return, I was bound to this existence.”

“I didn’t do this to you,” Peter shouted. “You did this to yourself.”

There was a deafening crass as the ships collided.

The mast cracked.

The chest was knocked from his hand.

Peter fell from the mast, hitting the deck with a painful thud. He gasped as searing pain flooded through his veins. His vision began to blur, colours bleeding into a swirling mass and streaks of light and striking lightning scorching his eyes. His thundering pulse drowned out the noise of the world around him.

He tried to breathe, the broken gasps failing to let the cool relief of air into his body. His lungs burnt and the tight muscles of his legs ached as he tried to move. He laid still, looking up at the grey sky.

A figure stood over him, blocking out the dull sky.

Peter blinked, clearing his vision.

The man towered over him, his pale flesh covered in plated armour of barnacles and coral and sea urchin barbs jutting out of the skin of his cheek.

Ennis.

His dark eyes were full of rage as he stared down at Peter, raising his blade.

The deafening crash of steel against steel broke through the muted sounds.

Peter turned his head slightly to see the man who blocked the attack, strands of his long dark hair slipping free from the tie that held it back from his face, wet and sticking to his face. His pale aventurine eyes were clear, focused. He looked the splitting image of his father.

“Hale,” Ennis growled.

Derek lunged forward, attacking Ennis and fighting him off.

Peter weakly rolled onto his side, his eyes drifting across the deck to where Deucalion stood, recovering his sword and advancing towards the chest.

He grimaced as pain tore through his body, felt panic rise into his chest as he willed his body to move. He braced his hands against the deck, shards of glass and splinters of wood cutting at the palms of his hands.

His feet slid on the wet deck but he staggered to his feet.

He dug his feet in and charged forward, pulling a dagger from the sheath in the small of his back.

Deucalion parried his attack, staggering back slightly as Peter advanced. He blocked Peter’s attack, grabbing the man by the throat with his free hand.

He hurled Peter across the deck, his back hitting the main mast as he fell to the deck with a painful grunt.

Deucalion stalked forward.

There was a heavy thump as Stiles swung across to the _Alpha_, landing in front of Deucalion and levelling the man with a fierce glare.

“You'll see no mercy from me,” Deucalion warned.

“That's why I brought this.” Stiles drew his sword.

Deucalion swung first.

Stiles blocked, moving swiftly as he countered the man’s attack, drawing a knife from the sheath strapped to his thigh and ducking under his arm, stabbing the man in the side.

Deucalion let out a cry of pain.

Stiles pulled out the knife, holding his sword and knife up, ready for the man’s rage.

Derek ran Ennis through, his blade buried to the hilt in the man’s chest. He pulled he sword free, letting the man’s body fall to the deck.

A figure stepped out of the shadows, her long hair clinging to her pale skin. She looked lifeless and hollow, her dark eyes clouded.

“Cora,” Derek whispered.

The girl charged at him, knocking the sword from his hand. She planted her foot in his stomach, knocking him back against the railing.

Derek felt the edge of her blade kiss his neck, struggling as he fought to hold her off.

“Stop!” he begged. “It's me. It's Derek.”

His words had no effect; her eyes were blank—void of any emotion or recognition.

She pushed down hard, her blade pressed against his throat. He felt the sting of pain as the metal sliced through his skin, a warm drop of blood trickling down his throat.

Derek kicked out, knocking Cora’s feet from under her. He wrenched the sword from her hand, pushing her back against the railing. He drew out the knife with the withered wooden handle—the one Cora had given her, but froze.

Out the corner of his eye he caught a flash of movement.

He turned to see Stiles fighting Deucalion.

He was holding his own, moving swiftly and striking hard.

Stiles slammed the hilt of his sword into the captain’s face.

Deucalion staggered backwards, blood trickling down his cheek. He reached out and grabbed an old oil lamp. He waited until Stiles charged at him before swinging it, shattering the glass against Stiles’ head and knocking him aside.

Stiles fell against the stairs, blood streaming from the gash on his head.

Derek’s heart dropped.

He turned back to Cora, her eyes focused on the blade of the knife in his hand, a glimmer of fear in the dark depths.

“I'm not going to kill you,” Derek said. “I made you a promise.”

He slammed the knife into the railing and ran across the ship, driving his sword through Deucalion’s chest as the man raised his sword to strike Stiles.

Deucalion let out a dry laugh.

“Mister Hale,” he said slowly, his voice deep and void of emotion. “Did you forget? I'm a heartless wretch.”

He grabbed the blade and bent it.

Derek pulled at the sword, trying ot pull it free fo the man’s chest, but it wouldn’t budge.

Deucalion spun around, slamming the hilt of his sword against the young man’s face and knocking him aside.

Derek hit the railing, letting out a strangled gasp as his body collapsed to the deck. His eyes turned to Stiles, the pale depths full of worry.

Stiles blinked the blood and rain out of his eyes, looking back at Derek.

Deucalion seemed to notice, his eyes drifting from Derek to Stiles and back again.

“Ah, love,” he said condescendingly. “A dreadful bond. And yet, so easily severed.”

He held his blade to Derek’s chest, the point pressed against the exposed bare flesh.

“No!” Stiles cried out.

Derek met his gaze defiantly.

“Tell me, Derek Hale,” Deucalion said. “Do you fear death?”

“Do you?” Peter shouted.

Deucalion turned.

Peter stood behind him with a dagger in his hand, the gleaming blade inches from the still-beating heart he held in his other hand.

“You're a cruel man, Peter Hale,” Deucalion sneered.

“Cruel is a matter of perspective,” Peter replied.

Deucalion raised his brow. “Is it?”

He turned and ran his sword through Derek’s chest.

“Derek!” Stiles screamed.

Peter freezes, watching as his nephew’s eyes widened in pain, his lips quivering as he choked on his breath.

Peter looked from his nephew to the heart in his hands.

Stiles grabbed the railing, hurling himself over to Derek’s side. He took the man’s face in his hands, cupping his cheeks as he looked at him with tear filled eyes.

“Look at me,” he begged, unable to hide the fear in his voice. “Stay with me!”

Derek blinked heavily, tears trailing down his cheeks. Streams of crimson spilt from the wound on his chest, washed away by the rain.

He turned his head slightly, looking at Stiles; only wanting to see Stiles.

“Stay with me,” Stiles pleaded. “Derek!”

Peter glanced over his shoulder at his niece, watching as she slowly straightened, her eyes clearing as a look of recognition settled on her face.

“Derek,” she whispered, her fingers brushing the wooden hilt of the knife. “My brother.”

Cora turned, tearing the knife from the railing and charging at Deucalion.

She tackled him, knocking the man to the deck and wrestling him.

Peter looked back at Derek.

“Derek?” Stiles whispered, watching the light fade from his eyes. “Derek, look at me. Stay with me!”

Deucalion backhanded Cora across the face, knocking her aside. He grabbed his sword holding it high as he towered over her.

Cora pushed herself up onto her elbows, her dark eyes burning with rage as she looked at him defiantly, blood streaming from her nose.

“You will not forestall my judgment,” Deucalion growled.

He froze, his eyes widening as pain tore through his chest. He flinched, choking on his breath as he turned to see the blade piercing the flesh of his heart.

He struggled to focus his eyes, letting his gaze drift up to the hilt where Peter held his nephew’s hand over the dagger.

Derek’s hand fell away from the blade, striking the deck with a heavy boom that seemed to tear through the air like cannon fire.

Peter levelled his glare on Deucalion.

Deucalion turned his eyes skyward, letting the rain crash against his skin as the crimson glow of his eyes faded—his eyes as grey as the clouds that hung overhead. A tear streamed down his cheek. He could feel his body weakening as he whispered, “Calypso.”

He fell overboard, disappearing in the churning grey waters.

_The_ _Alpha_ veered, the tide pulling them further into the maelstrom.

“She's taking us down!” Chris yelled from the _Eclipse_, his voice carried by the wind. “Hurry or it's the Locker for us all!”

The crew manned the cannons, aiming them up at the entangled sails. They fired, shattering the masts and freeing themselves from the _Alpha_.

Chris grabbed the wheel, spinning it as he straightened the _Eclipse_.

Cora picked up the knife from where it had been knocked aside, turning to look at her brother. Her eyes were focused but vacant.

Peter followed her gaze to Derek.

“Stay with me,” Stiles whispered.

Derek’s breathing grew ragged, shallow—blood gathering on his lips. His eyes grew unfocused, his eyes falling shut as his body fell still, his head lulling to the side.

“No,” Stiles begged, breathless. He felt his chest tighten, his stomach twisting nauseatingly. “No, no, no. Don’t leave me!”

It started quietly; a murmur among the crewmates: “Part of the ship, part of the crew. Part of the ship, part of the crew.”

Peter leapt to his feet, grabbing Stiles’ arm and pulling away from Derek.

“No!” Stiles screamed. “I won't leave!”

Peter grabbed Stiles around the waist, lifting the young man off his feet and dragging over to the far railing.

“We have to go,” Peter said insistently.

The crewmates crowded around Derek’s still body.

Cora knelt before her brother, the knife in her hand. “_The_ _Alpha_ must have a captain.”

Peter held Stiles close against his side as he coiled a rope around his arm.

“Hold on,” he instructed, pulled his pistol from his belt and aiming at the winch.

Stiles did as he was told.

Peter fired, the bullet breaking the winch. The rope hoisted them upwards, swinging them onto the deck of the Eclipse as the ship pulled out of the maelstrom.

Stiles collapsed to the decking, choking back his sobs as bile rose into his throat.

Peter watched as the Alpha was pulled under, disappearing into the churning depths.

“Thank goodness you’re okay,” Lydia said, running over to Stiles’ side.

“The armada's still out there,” Boyd pointed out.

“The _Endeavor_'s coming up hard to starboard,” Scott added, “and I think it's time we embrace that oldest and noblest of pirate traditions.”

_Running away_, Peter thought. He felt rage boil inside of him.

Derek’s dead.

Cora’s gone.

He has no one left.

“I’ve never actually been one for tradition,” he muttered.

“If we run now, we stand a chance of outrunning them,” Isaac argued.

“For how long?” Peter countered. “If we don’t end this now, they’ll hunt us down and kill us—one by one—until there are none of us left.”

He turned to the crew.

“Close haul her,” he ordered. “Luff the sails and lay her in irons.”

“Belay that,” Chris shouted from the wheel. “Or we'll be a sitting duck.”

“Belay that ‘belay that’,” Peter ordered, stepping up onto the higher deck.

Chris opened his mouth to argue when Peter turned to Stiles. “My King?”

An eerie voice seemed to ring through the air, a memory carried by the breeze.

_You-hu-hu_  
they are coming for you.  
I can see three pirates on the ocean.

_The first one lost his eye,_

_The second lost his sense._

Stiles rose to his feet, his face composed—emotionless—as he looked at the white sails of the _Endeavour_. His dark eyes hid the storm that raged inside of him.

_The third one will show no emotion._

“Do as Peter says,” Stiles ordered.

Across the waters, Gerard stood on the deck of the _Endeavour_, the breeze tousling his thin white hair.

A soldier dressed in a navy blue uniform stepped over to Lord Argent’s side.

“What are they waiting for?” the soldier asked.

“He expects us to honour our agreement,” Gerard said, a hint of humour in his voice. He turned and relayed his orders, “Ready guns and gun ports.”

He turned back to sea, looking at the black ship that sailed towards them.

“It's nothing personal, Peter,” he said quietly. “It's just good business.”

There was a crash of water as the _Alpha_ resurfaced.

Wood and detritus fell away from the hull, the rippling waves settling around the hull.

Argent smirked. “Ah, she survived.”

Aboard the Alpha, the crew staggered forward across the wet deck, sea life dripping off of them. They looked down at themselves.

A young girl stepped forward, her long dark hair hanging around her shoulders. She carefully pried the bright yellow starfish off her cheek, holding it in her hand for a second before casting it over the side of the ship.

They crew looked at each other, turning to their captain.

The man stepped forward, his heavy boots striking the deck as he stepped up behind the wheel. A piece of cloth was fastened like a bandanna, holding his hair back from his face. The front of his shirt hung open, revealing the bloody, jagged scar that ran across his chest.

His pale aventurine eyes were set forward, determined.

“Ready on the guns,” Derek ordered, his voice carrying across the sea.

A look of relief settled on Stiles’ face as the voice reached him.

Peter smirked, taking the wheel as he shouted, “Full canvas.”

Peter spun the wheel, turning the ship alongside the _Alpha_.

The ships sailed across the open waters, closing the space between them and the armada.

They sailed alongside the _Endeavour_, trapping it between the two ships.

“Cap'n?” Scott asked.

A wicked smile played across Peter’s lips. “Fire.”

“Fire!” Scott relayed, his voice ringing through the air.

“Fire!” Derek shouted.

The thundering cannon blasts filled the air, artillery tearing through the imperial ship.

The world seemed to fall silent, all sound distant—muted—as the cannons fired. Splintered wood, broken railings, and bloodied bodies were tossed through the air.

Gerard watched on from the higher deck, a look of shock and horror on his face.

“Orders, sir?” a soldier shouted over the thundering booms, but his voice didn’t seem to reach Gerard.

“It's just...good business,” Gerard whispered.

“Abandon ship!” the solder cried out.

Gerard stood, frozen and watching as the carnage unfolded.

A cannonball tore through the mast, letting it fall across the ship, snapping the wooden boards of the deck.

Argent stepped over to the stairs, letting his hand glide down the polished banister as he slowly made his way down onto the deck.

The ship was obliterated behind him, slivers of wood falling like rain around him with every step he took.

He stopped at the bottom of the stairs.

An oil lamp fell to the deck, the glass shattering as the flame lit the pooling oil. The roaring flamed consumed the vessel, plumes of smoke rising as the ship broke apart.

The ship sank below the surface of the water, scuttled. Debris, flotsam and wreckage drifted across the surface of the undulating waves.

Peter looked at the horizon, watching as the armada turned and sailed away. A smile turned up the corner of his lip as the crowds of pirates burst out in celebration, their voices carried by the wind.


	17. XVII

Derek stood by the railing at the stern of the _Alpha_, his eyes cast across the sea to the ship with the black sails.

Quiet footsteps approached him from behind.

“Orders, sir?” Cora asked.

“You're no longer bound to the Alpha,” Derek said softly, glancing over his shoulder at his sister. “You're free.”

“That's a fine thing, but... by my reckoning, I still have a debt that has to be paid,” she replied. “If you'll have me.”

Derek smiled fondly. “On the wheel then, Miss Hale.”

“Aye, Captain Hale.”

She took a step back, turning to take her place at the wheel when she noticed her brother’s gaze lingering on the _Eclipse_.

“Where we are bound, he cannot come,” she said quality. “One day ashore, ten years at sea—it’s a steep price for what's been done.”

“Depends on the day,” Derek said.

Stiles stood on the bow of the _Eclipse_, looking across the waters at the _Alpha_. It looked completely different; a new ship, untouched by time. There were no barnacles of its hull, no kelp entangled in the railing, and the parts of the hull that had been patched up with stray panels of wood were as good as new.

Scott made his way up the stairs and over to Stiles’ side.

“Your chariot awaits, Your Majesty,” he said quietly.

Stiles’ brow furrowed in confusion as he turned to look at Scott.

Scott turned slightly, gesturing to the row boat that hung over the edge of the ship.

Stiles smiled and steps down onto the deck.

The crew had gathered on the deck, parting as he made his way down the small flight of stairs.

Chris waited for him at the bottom of the stairs, looking at Stiles fondly.

“You stepped aboard my ship as Mr. Hale,” the captain said, a smile playing across his lips. “And you’re leaving the same—only this time, it’s not a lie.”

Stiles smiled back at him warmly.

Chris bowed his head, tipping his hat to Stiles.

Stiles walked on past the familiar faces: Allison, Lydia, Isaac, and Boyd.

Erica stood beside them, blinking back the glistening tears that welled in her eyes.

“Goodbye, poppet,” she whispered.

Stiles reached out and gave her hand a gentle squeeze before continuing on. He stops at the end of the crowd, turning to the man who stood by the railing.

“Peter,” he started, unable to find the words. “Thank you.”

A small smile turned up the corner of Peter’s lips.

“Take care of yourself,” Peter said quietly.

Stiles smiled, turning to climb into the row boat.

The rolling waves lapped at the shore, the sand bathed in the golden glow of the setting sun.

Derek sat on one of the grey rocks, pulling on his boot. He paused, a hint of a smile playing across his lips.

“I'm going to need the other one,” he said.

A foot came to rest on the stone next to him, Derek’s boot on his leg.

Derek bit into his lower lip, trying to hide his smirk as he turned to face Stiles. His touch was gentle as he slid the boot off Stiles’ foot, his calloused hands gliding up the pale skin of Stiles’ bare leg as he straightened. He pressed his body against Stiles’ and brought their lips together in a tender, chaste kiss.

He rested his forehead against Stiles’, his eyes shut as he whispered, “It's nearly sunset.”

He begrudgingly pulled away, pulling on his boot and rising to his feet. He grabbed his coat from where he had tossed it over a nearby rock, looking down at the black chest that held his heart.

“It's always belonged to you,” he said, turning to Stiles. “Will you keep it safe?”

Stiles nodded, blinking back the tears that welled his eyes.

Derek looked at him lovingly, turning to walk back to the sea.

“Derek!” Stiles called out, running after him.

He leapt into Derek’s arms, crushing their mouths together. The kiss was passionate, but seemed to weaken, growing more gentle and tender as Derek cupped Stiles’ cheek in his hand.

Stiles looped his arms around Derek’s neck and grabbed at fistfuls of Derek’s shirt, desperately not wanting to let go.

Derek tilted his head and deepened the kiss, pulling Stiles in closer.

Stiles drew back, enough for them to draw breath, resting his forehead against Derek’s as a tear trailed down his cheek.

Derek whispered. “Keep a weather eye on the horizon.”

Stiles nodded. He watched as Derek left, rowing back to the _Alpha_ and disappearing in a flash of green.


	18. XVIII

The sound of his heavy boots echoed against the wooden slats of the pier. Peter made his way back to where the _Eclipse _had been anchored when they made port to restock, sauntering down the long pier.

He paused.

He felt a wave of anger rush through his veins, quickly subsidising as he thought, _I should have seen this coming_.

The Eclipse was gone, and in its place was a small dingy.

He let out a heavy sigh, looking out to the horizon where he watched Chris sail away with his ship.

“Take what you can,” he said holding up the bottle of whiskey held in his hand and toasting them. “Give nothing back.”

He untied the dingy from the pole, tossing the rope into the boat before clambering in and pushing away from the pier.

He shrugged his bag off his shoulder and set it down in front of him, pulling it open and digging through the contents until he found what he was looking for: a small circle of painted bamboo, the edges jagged and splintering slightly from where he had cut it from the map.

He set it down on the bench in front of him, using the whiskey bottle to weigh it down as he slowly turns the circles, matching up land masses and scrawls of writing.

He picked up a bottle of rum, pulling the cork from the bottle and sitting back on his seat as the dingy drifted across the sea. He took a sip of the rum, enjoying the quiet sounds of the waves lapping at the hull of the row boat as he sang quietly,

_Yo ho, yo ho,_

_A pirate's life for me._

_We're devils and black sheep,_

_Really bad eggs._

_Drink up, me hearties, Yo ho._

_Yo ho, yo ho,_

_A pirate's life for me._


	19. Epilogue

Stiles waited on the rocky shoreline, sitting among the wavering blades of grass.

Ten years had passed. His hair had grown longer and the start of a scruffy beard shadowed his jaw.

His eyes were fixed on the horizon, watching as the sun sank lower and lower, darkness creeping in. He watched as the last glimpses of light disappeared and a flash of green lit up the sky.

He didn’t have to wait long before the rowboat pulled up at shore and the man stepped out.

Stiles rose to his feet, running down the grassy incline and leaping into Derek’s arms. He brought their lips together in a sweet, passionate kiss, melting into the warmth and comfort of his husband’s arms.

“I missed you,” Stiles whispered as he pulled back, his eyes glimmering with tears as he looked up at Derek.

“I missed you too,” Derek uttered breathlessly. “You look very mature.”

“Is that another way of saying I’ve gotten old?” Stiles teased.

“Not at all,” Derek whispered, pressing their lips together in a tender kiss. “You’re still as handsome as the day I met you.”

“And yet you look as if you haven’t aged a day,” Stiles remarked, looking Derek up and down.

He paused, letting the silence settle between them. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet.

“Let me come with you,” he begged.

“Stiles, you can’t—”

“I’ll hold my breath.”

Derek chuckled, looking at Stiles fondly. He gently ran the backs of his fingers across Stiles’ cheek before brushing aside a strand of Stiles’ long hair, tucking it behind his ear. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

“Derek, please, I can’t live like this,” Stiles whispered.

“Stiles…”

“There might be a way,” a voice interrupted.

Stiles and Derek turned.

Cora stood in the shadows, the water rising up to her knees. She wore a brown leather coat and an old shirt tucked into the waistline of her pants. Her long brown hair had been pulled back from her place, a strip of fabric tying it up in a ponytail.

“No,” Derek said, already guessing what his sister was thinking.

“What is it?” Stiles asked, keeping his eyes on Cora.

“Any soul that’s lost at sea,” Cora started.

“No!” Derek interrupted.

“Derek,” Stiles whispered, sliding his hand into the man’s and squeezing it gently to get the man’s attention.

“A deal is only as long as a hundred years,” Derek said.

“And that’s a hundred years more than I have to live,” Stiles argued. “If I live for another fifty years then I only spend five days with you for the rest of my life. And if I die on shore, then I won’t ever see you again.”

Derek bowed his head.

“One last day on shore,” Stiles whispered. “And then I leave with you.”

“A deal must be struck for you to stay aboard the ship,” Derek pointed out.

“Okay, you let me stay aboard your ship and in return I will protect your heart for as long as you shall live,” Stiles bargained.

Derek looked at him, the determination in his husband’s face making his heart swell. He knew it was impossible to make Stiles back down.

A faint smile crept onto his face. He held out his hand. “Done.”

Stiles shook his hand. “Done.”

As sun set on another day, Stiles and Derek returned to the beach.

Stiles carried the black chest with him, passing it to Cora as she stood in the shallows and asking her to hold it for a while until he returned.

He watched as Derek and Cora returned to the ship, waiting until the sky lit up green before letting his legs carry him forward. He walks out to sea, letting the water rise above his head.

He fought against the instinct not to breathe in, letting his lungs empty and watching the bubbles rise to the surface.

Darkness crept in around the edges of his vision.

The screaming voices in the back of his mind were silenced; the panic subsided and the pain drifted away.

He felt himself peacefully drifting through the darkness; finally at rest.

There was a flash of green, the burst of colour blinding.

Stiles jolted upright in bed, gasping for air.

He stilled, looking around.

He was in a cabin, sitting on the bed that was pushed to one side of the large space. Across from the food of the bed was a dresser, the heavy wrought-iron chest sitting atop it.

He could hear the familiar sound of wood creaking as it shifted, battered by the wind and the rocking tides. The smell of the salty sea reached his nose.

A change of clothes had been laid out at the foot of the bed: a pair of dark pants, a soft cotton shirt and a grey jacket with fine embroidery on the lapels. Atop the pile was a black leather belt with a sword sheathed.

Stiles felt his heart skip a beat as he recognised the sword and the scabbard, both beautifully designed with careful attention to detail; the folded steel sword with a seam of gold down the engraved groove of the blade. The carved oak hilt with its gold filigree laid into it and leather strapping for grip.

It was the sword Derek had made for Tate.

Stiles pushed the blankets aside and swung his legs over the side of the bed, changing into the clothes before stepping out onto the deck.

He felt the warmth of the sunlight against his skin, closing his eyes for a second as he breathed in the fresh air.

“Look who’s finally awake,” a familiar voice called out from behind the wheel.

A smile turned up the corners of Stiles’ mouth as he turned to see Derek, his long, dark hair tousled by the ocean breeze and his face lit by the sun’s golden light.

Stiles met his gaze, climbing up the stairs.

“I suppose I have you to thank for this,” he said, gesturing at his clothes.

“We couldn’t have the King of the Brethren Court dressing in rags,” Derek remarked, a playful smirk lighting up his face.

Stiles smiled back, stepping over to Derek’s side.

This is where he belonged.

Thus began a legend: the man who ferries the souls of the dead and the immortal Pirate King who guards his heart.

**Author's Note:**

> celestialvoid-fanfiction.tumblr.com


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